Rescue
by taralynden
Summary: What happens when the boys find themselves in serious trouble on the way back from a rescue, trouble that only International Rescue could get them out of? Who will rescue the rescuers?
1. Chapter 1

Warnings: A few bad words and some rather childish jokes  
Disclaimer: I do not own Thunderbirds, I make no profit from this, I just like to play in their world.

* * *

Gordon squinted out across the roiling water, the pitchy darkness broken only by the all-too-bright halogens from above which were blinding him. Finally he spotted something moving about and he clambered his way carefully over the hull of the capsized yacht to grab at it. It took a couple of attempts, but finally he snagged the item and dragged it back to where he had started from, blindly loosening clasps as he moved. Reaching the victims once more, he paused to survey them. Two of them were on their feet, though one had lost an alarming amount of blood from a shark bite. The third was on a stretcher and out cold. Given the swell and the rising wind they could not use the elevator, so harnesses were the order of the day.

"Alright!" he yelled. "You two are going up. I'll help you get these on."

"I'm not leaving Chris!" the woman shouted, gesturing to her unconscious colleague.

"Ma'am he'll be perfectly safe." he called back at her. "But my first responsibility is to get you two off this boat before it sinks."

"Isn't your aircraft keeping it afloat, though?" the man asked weakly, his words whipped away by the wind and almost inaudible.

Gordon shook his head.

"They're doing what they can, but the more waterlogged she gets the heavier she is. They can only take so much weight. Now let me put these round you."

It was hard work in the cold and wet, but he took the time to be sure the straps were secure before turning his back to the wind and ducking his head, then keying his transmitter.

"T4 to Thunderbirds One and Two. Passengers secure. Haul them up T2."

"F-A-B." he heard in his earpiece.

"Are you still going to try to stretcher the third up?" Scott asked.

"Negative, the wind's getting too strong."

"Agreed. Can you get him back into Four?"

That was a very good question under the circumstances, but he answered cheerfully in the affirmative nonetheless.

"Of course! T4 out."

Turning back into the wind, he saw that the other two were now several metres up in the air, and rising steadily. The wind was blowing them about dreadfully, and he thought he could hear at least one of them screaming, but there was nothing he could do about that right now. The stretchered victim was his problem, and what a problem the man was going to be. There were sharks circling about - hungry sharks, given all the blood in the water from the two people who had not made it. Usually he would just slap an oxygen tank onto the victim and haul them back down to Four underwater, but that was not going to be possible here. He was going to have to bring the submarine closer and load on the surface, but to do that he would have to leave the victim here alone and risk swimming through the water himself.

If only they had a few more operatives, he thought wistfully, checking that the stretcher was secure and not likely to slip into the water while he was gone. Then he would have support in Four to bring the craft closer. Alan had offered to join him, but Gordon had turned him down knowing full well that his space-happy brother would never be able to handle the submersible in this sort of weather. None of them could. It took experience and lots of practice. Besides, Alan was needed up in Two to help the other victims aboard.

Fitting his mask again, he dove smoothly into the turbulent water and began swimming as fast as he could, using the propeller pack on his back to speed himself along. He had left Four twenty metres out, and Scott had attached a line from One so she would not drift away. Twenty metres was really nothing in swimming distance, especially for a former Olympian, but fighting this current and surrounded by angry predators it seemed like miles. Hauling himself up the side of the craft, he was aware that he had company of the predatorial kind and he dragged himself quickly up to the hatch and inside. He would not get the chance to do that trip again without being molested and he would not have made it now had he been towing the victim. Pulling off his mask with one hand he closed the hatch with the other, opened the airlock to the main cabin and hurried into his seat.

"Thunderbird Four to Thunderbird One. I'm in, Scott - release the tether."

"Tether released." Scott reported. "You okay, Gordon? You sound a bit breathless."

"Oh, nah, I just love swimming with sharks at mealtime." he replied, able to joke about it now that it was over. "Adds a bit of spice to the same-old, same-old, y'know?"

"I could have winched you across." Scott disapproved.

"Not without letting go of my baby." Gordon told him cheerily. "And Virgil can't let go of the yacht or she'll go straight down."

He knew Scott would be fuming, but his concern now was how he was going to manage the next step.

"This is going to be tricky." he muttered.

"Sorry, Thunderbird Four, I did not read you."

"Just looking at my options, One." Gordon spoke up. "I think what I'll have to do is lock onto the hull with the clamps, then pull the stretcher over the nose."

"You're going to get blown about." Scott told him. "I'll lower a guide cable."

"F-A-B."

Carefully extending the clamps, he made sure that he got a good grip on the hull before tightening them. Then he was up and through the hatch as quickly as he could be. The yacht was still sinking, and if he was not quick, she would now take Four with her. Scott, bless him, came right down to just a few metres above where Gordon was to lower the cable which stopped it being blown about so much and cut the risk of Gordon losing an arm trying to catch it. It was dangerous to fly so close to the waves in this weather, but Scott was an excellent pilot and pulled it off as though everything was calm, somehow even managing to keep the thruster blast from burning him to a crisp in the process. Using a harness he had brought with him from Four, Gordon latched himself to the stretcher, then to the guide cable. Now if they were thrown overboard by wave or wind, Scott could lift them clear. Step by careful step, he moved towards Four and Scott manipulated One to follow their progress and keep the cord taut. Sometimes it got too tight, lifting him up, and other times it was slightly slack, but never for long enough to voice a complaint. Finally he reached the safety of the hatch, and set the cable free. They had made it.

* * *

Alan closed the outer hatch and everything was suddenly quiet, the hull doing an excellent job of blocking the noise from outside. Letting the winch slack off a little, he eased the victims down to the floor and began undoing the harnesses. The man had lost consciousness and needed a fresh bandage on his leg - the one Gordon had applied was soaked through - but the woman was struggling to free herself.

"It's okay, you're safe now." he told her.

She stared at him.

"Chris! You've got to get that line back down. You've got to save Chris!"

"Hey, easy there. My buddies are looking after him. Can you stand up? Are you hurt?"

"What? No... no I'm, oh Greg! Greg!"

"Lets get him out of this harness and down to the sickbay." Alan suggested. "He'll be okay."

He paused to pull a blanket out and wrap it around her shoulders, noting that she was shivering, then went back to his task. He was just settling Greg onto the stretcher when the his headset radio clicked on.

"T2 to T3, we've had a change of plans. T4's bringing the final victim up in the pod."

"F-A-B, T2." Alan answered, finding it hard to remember to use the new call signs instead of names. "I'm heading through to the sickbay now."

"F-A-B. I'll warn you when we go for pickup. T2 out."

"This way." Alan urged the woman, noting that she hobbled as they headed down the corridor.

She was very pale, and he got her settled in a chair, handing her a mug of hot chocolate before attaching a VSM to Greg. The readout was good: his blood pressure was a little low but not dangerously so, and his pulse was strong. Next he changed the bandages, carefully using his body to shield the sight of the wound from the woman. It was messy but not life-threatening, and the pressure was slowing the bleeding nicely. Hooking up a bag of PolyHeme to compensate for the lost blood, he finally turned back to the woman to see that she had not moved.

"Hey, it's okay." he assured her, crouching before her and wrapping a hand around hers. "You should drink, it'll make you feel better."

"My husband. Chris. I want to see him..."

"They'll bring him here just as soon as he's aboard." he told her. "This is the best place to wait. Here, do you want some more milk in that?"

"What? Oh, no. How's Greg?"

"Just sleeping now. He's going to be just fine. What about you, though? Are you hurt anywhere?"

"I don't think so. It all happened so fast."

She finally took a sip of the chocolate drink and he smiled at her.

"There, how's that now?"

She blinked at him, but before she could answer Virgil's voice broke into the silence.

"T3, prepare to drop for pickup."

"Give me a minute, V... T2." he stumbled over the callsign.

Taking the mug from her, he set it aside on a flat surface.

"I just have to strap you in - we're going to pick up our equipment now, and the ship'll rock about a bit. We don't want you getting hurt. Alright. How's that? Not too tight? Good. Okay T2, we're good to go."

"F-A-B. Descending now."

* * *

Scott held his breath as Virgil hovered over the heaving ocean. Less than ten metres below, the pod was being thrown about violently, several times submerged completely only to resurface again moments later. Thank god it was watertight. Even so, Gordon and his passenger must be getting more than a bit queasy.

A soft beeping from the control panel threatened to distract him, but he blindly switched off the alert. This weather was putting a terrible strain on One's hull and wings - it was not designed to be buffetted about like this for long periods and he knew he was going to have to spend hours replacing stressed panels when he got home. But first they had to get home.

The pod disappeared again, lost under a particularly large wave while it hung in a trough, and suddenly Thunderbird Two swooped down. Just as the pod popped up, the air in it providing buoyancy, it was covered and caught, the strong magnets tugging it into place and holding it there. He could not hear the engines screaming, but he could see the flare as Virgil pushed the motors to deal with the sudden increase in weight and loss of manoeuvrability, and there was a heart-stopping moment as it appeared they would not gain height quickly enough to miss the next wave... and then they did.

Now all that remained was to drop the victims off at the nearest town. He would escort Virgil that far, waiting while the victims were unloaded, watching the camera detector. Then, when Two was out of sight, he could head home himself. At home it would be mid-morning now, lunch being prepared, the weather warm and balmy. He smiled to himself. Yes, in a couple of hours time, this would all be forgotten, and he would be stretched out on the beach with a full stomach and not a care in the world. He simply could not wait.

* * *

"Hey Virge?"

"Mm?"

"What has fifty heads and fifty tails?"

"Gordy..." he began to protest in dismay.

"Fifty pennies!" his brother giggled.

Virgil closed his eyes, feeling his headache returning.

"Hey what about this one?" Alan took his turn. "Why did the one-handed man cross the road?"

"Gee, I don't know Alan," Gordon responded far too brightly. "Why _did_ the one-handed man cross the road?"

"To get to the second-hand shop!"

Virgil groaned, re-opening his eyes as he felt the faintest hint of turbulence through the controls.

"How old are you guys again?"

They ignored him.

"Wait, I've got a better one."

"Don't you mean a worse one?"

"Why do birds fly south in the winter?"

"I dunno."

"Because it's too far to walk!"

The radio crackled to life, and Virgil flicked the comm switch gratefully even before Scott could speak.

"Receiving you loud and clear, Thunderbird One, go ahead."

There was a pause as Scott readjusted his train of thought, and Gordon took advantage of it.

"Hey Scott!" he yelled. "Where do you weigh a whale?"

"Oh God, they're not still at it are they?"

"They just started up again." Virgil sighed. "I'm hoping if I ignore them they'll go away."

"At the _whaleweigh_ station!" Gordon finished the joke.

"If they don't, you could always bludgeon them to death." Scott suggested. "No jury in the world would convict you when they heard the whole story."

"Don't tempt me."

"How do you get rid of a boomerang?" Alan put in.

"What's your ETA?" Scott asked.

"Ah, now ninety-seven minutes. Yours?"

"Throw it down a one-way street!"

"Alan that was _awful_!" Scott snapped.

"Don't encourage them!" Virgil begged. "They're going for awful, remember?"

"Oh yeah?" Scott asked. "Well lets see if they can top this one. Hey guys! What's brown and sticky?"

Virgil grinned. He knew this one. Glancing back, he saw that his younger brothers did not, and he smirked at their confused and suspicious expressions - after all, one of the rules of the contest was that the joke had to be clean enough to tell to their grandmother. The loser had to do just that with the winning joke. At the dinner table. In front of their father, and Kyrano, and Tintin.

"ETA now twenty-two minutes, V." Scott continued more calmly. "Weather's deteriorating a bit over here now. Not too bad yet, but wet and windy. It'll get worse by the time you come through."

"Understood. Recommendation?"

"Three degree diversion west. It'll add about half an hour to your ETA, though. Or you could raise altitude to about 160 and go over it."

There was a great deal of whispering going on behind him now, and Virgil grinned at the image of his brother. Scott winked back, picking up what it was for: they had the boys stumped for now. The peace would not last, unfortunately, but Virgil would enjoy it as long as it did.

"One-sixty'd put me on a steep decline back to base." he observed blandly, careful not to let his amusement sound in his tone.

"True, but it'd keep your ETA about the same as it is now. Depends on w-"

Virgil straightened in alarm as his screen went blank.

"Thunderbird Two to Thunderbird One. Come in please. Thunderbird One, please respond. Thunderbird Two calling Thunderbird One, Scott, please come in. Can you hear me? If you can hear me, please respond. Thunderbird Two to Thunderbird One, are you receiving this transmission...?"

"Reading you, Two." Scott finally answered, on audio only. "Man that was weird!"

"What happened?" Virgil demanded.

"Must've been a lightning strike." Scott replied distractedly, clearly still trying to right the problems he was having. "I didn't see it, but it can't've been anything else. I'm really going to have to talk to Brains about upgrading the surge protection."

"Are you alright?"

"A bit rattled, but yeah. I'm okay."

"Want to try that answer again?" Virgil growled at him.

Scott's returning laugh was more than a little shaky.

"Yeah, maybe. The main comp's still down. I'm flying mostly manual. Instruments... heck, I can't even tell. I'm going to have to land, Virge. The readout says I'm still steady at 98,000 feet, but I know I must've lost at least 20. Maybe more. You're... um, you'll have to guide me down."

Virgil did not like the sound of any of that and was already increasing the power to full flight speed. On the way home they usually cruised, but he no longer had the luxury of wasting time. Beside him, Alan was now in the copilot's seat and working the radar to help pinpoint Scott's exact position.

"Alright, hold on. We'll be with you in approximately twenty-five minutes. Stay on the line - I'm just going to let John know what's going on."

"F-A-B."

* * *

Scott tasted blood and realised he was biting his lip. Irritated, he wiped at his mouth with the back of his hand.

"Come on, Virgil, hurry it up." he muttered.

Usually he loved being alone in the sky, no-one in sight: the freedom and the independence of it all appealed to him. That appeal was completely lost on him at this moment. Right now he just wanted to see someone. Anyone. Anything that could tell him where he was.

He knew he had lost height, yet the instruments were frozen so he had no idea how much. His compass had gone haywire, the magnet overcharged by the surge when the lightning had struck, so he had no idea which direction he was flying in or how low he was. He had the shutters open, but they made little difference given that he was flying through thick cloud cover. He was adjusting manually every time he hit turbulence, but without the instruments he had no idea if he was helping or hindering his present situation.

Virgil had stayed on the radio with him for nearly fifteen minutes straight before having to break the connection because their father wanted an update. With the computer down Scott could not handle the long distance call, and he understood that Virgil did not want him listening in to the situation briefing. He would have done the same in Virgil's place. You did everything possible to stop the victim panicking, including keeping them out of the loop in some instances. None of it helped his nervousness now, though.

Was he over land? Over water? Was there a mountain just ahead that might suddenly appear out of the grey mist? What if he got struck again? The questions kept bubbling up in him, and it was getting harder and harder to fight them down. Easier when Virgil's calm voice was on the other end of the radio.

The lights flickered half-heartedly, and he froze. What was causing that? They flickered again, then dimmed threateningly. Flickered a final time, then came on full again. Letting out a sob he had not realised was forming in his throat, he looked down to see that the instrument panel had lit up with warning lights and error messages - the computer had come back online.

"Brains, you're a genius." he praised the engineer.

But it seemed he had spoken too soon. The computer was on, but not responding to commands - it seemed to have frozen once more. Losing patience, he pressed the main kill switch to reset it. Immediately the ship lurched and rolled, making him glad he had put on his full launch harness. It was hard work, flying totally on manual in this ship: as much as he loved her, Thunderbird 1 was definitely the most awkward of all to handle under adverse conditions. It was partly _why_ he loved her, knowing that the others could never get her to perform to the level he did, but right now he would trade her in for something that was a tad less volatile. Manually regulating the balance between the chemical fuel and the nuclear engines was almost a fulltime job on its own. A second later, the computer came back online and automatically took over, yet it was overflowing with error messages which had to be cleared before he could regain control. In the meantime, with the manual controls locked, he was veering off to starboard and possibly also down though it was hard to be sure.

"Come on baby," he muttered, fingers typing in override commands as quickly as it would accept them, "don't let me down. Come on."

The computer crashed again, and he tried again to reboot it. This time it seemed to be working and he tried turning. It started to work, but then the main lights flickered and went out.

"What now?" he groaned as the emergency lighting came on.

The computer had died completely now, not even beeping when he pressed the reset switch. Swearing, he tried to wrench the controls back into alignment by brute force, but the yoke did not budge. Everything had locked, and one of the flaps was cocked against the wind, leaving the ship performing constant barrel rolls until Scott wondered if his usually cast-iron stomach was going to rebel. With no instruments to tell him when he was off course and cloud cover obscuring his view of the surroundings, there was no way he could tell where he was going. He could only pray there was no-one coming in the other direction and that he was not losing height. Just then the radio spluttered back to life.

"Thunderbird 2 to Thunderbird 1, what's going on over there?"

"Virgil, thank god! I'm in trouble. The controls aren't responding, and I can't jettison because I don't know where I am. Can you tell me how close to the ground I am?"

"Hang on, we're nearly there. Just two more minutes."

"I... Christ, V, I don't think I can!"

"Alright Scott, listen to me - you've only got about three thousand feet. You have to get clear, Thunderbird 1. Do you read me? Get out now. Jettison and we'll find you. Do it now!"

"I'm rolling, Virgil! How do I know which way is up?"

"You're losing height. Just do it. We'll find you, Scott, just get out of there!"

* * *

Gordon held his breath, horrified. In the last minute, everything had gone from serious-but-under-control to an all-out crisis. Since the lightning strike, Thunderbird One had steadily been losing height, but only gradually. Yet abruptly it had dropped nearly ten thousand feet, and now Scott sounded like he was panicking. No, Gordon told himself. Scott does not panic. He never panics, and neither does Virgil. You're imagining it.

"The release isn't working! It must've locked with the power out."

"What about the manual release?" Virgil demanded.

"No good. It's not working. Can't jettison. I'm going to tr...hover but I don'...o thruster contr..."

"Alan!" Virgil roared. "Get that radio connection back up."

"I'm trying! It's not a fault at our end. I think... I think he's still receiving us."

"Scott listen to me. You're only eight hundred feet up, now. Can you see the ground? Scott, do you have any sort of control at all? If you don't, you've got to put on your full launch harness to protect you from the impact. Do it now, Scott. Dropping now past five hundred. We'll be in visual range in about eighty seconds, and we'll find you. Activate your emergency beacon emitter and just hang on. Past three hundred, Scott, make sure those straps are tight. Two hundred. One. Scott, brace for impact."

Virgil paused and for a second there was a painful silence. Gordon stared at the tension in the pilot's shoulders, trying to read him from behind. Scott and Virgil had always been close in ways that did not quite make sense. Scott had known when Virgil had broken his arm at the age of eight, for example, even though they'd been miles apart. Virgil had woken up in the middle of the night and dragged their father out of bed to find Scott who had crashed his car on the way home at age sixteen. Not to mention the number of times they finished each other's sentences or predicted what the other was about to do. It was stupid, but he was suddenly sure that if Scott was to die in this crash, Virgil would... well, he was not sure. But he thought Virgil would know, and so far he could not tell anything at all from his brother's posture.

Alan broke the silence, opening up a radio channel to John and reporting what had happened. Brains and their father were linked in, and there was a three-way conversation held, demanding answers that they just did not have yet. John reported that he was receiving a steady signal from the e-bee, but that Scott was not responding to hails either on his watch or through Thunderbird One's radio. Then Virgil silenced them all, announcing that they were arriving at the danger zone and that he was breaking off until they had assessed the situation. There was a click as the radio was switched off, then almost immediately a soft buzzing which indicated an incoming transmission.

"Ignore it." Virgil told Alan. "We'll let them know when we have some news."

"Dad'll be furious." Alan warned. "He goes ballistic when he gets cut o...oh shit."

"Language." Virgil muttered absently, but Gordon doubted he really cared.

They had arrived.


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: I do not own Thunderbirds, I make no profit from this, I just like to play in their world.

A/N: thanks to everyone who reviewed. I hope this continues to live up to your expectations. And for the record (since it's worrying some people) no deaths in this fic, I'm just beating them up a bit.

* * *

The first thing he saw were flames

The first thing he saw were flames. Flames shooting several hundred feet into the air. Alan shook his head in dismay, swearing under his breath. If there was that bad an inferno, then Scott... how could there be any hope left? They were too late.

"The engines are still firing." Gordon said from behind him, the words sounding distant. "He must've gone nose first."

The engines? Alan peered closer, and then saw that Gordon was right. Beneath the flames and smoke, he could just barely make out part of One's fuselage - she was hanging upside down, supported by the dense forest she had fallen into.

"That's going to make it tricky." Virgil commented, swinging Two around to come in from the west, upwind of the smoke.

"Those trees aren't going to hold all that weight for long." Alan warned, his initial panic passing now that there was a chance again. "They're already catching fire."

"We'll have to put it out. Gordon - go and check our dicetyline supplies. There might be a couple of tanks in the rear storage as well as the main supply, I think they're still there from last week. If they're there, slave them to the main ones so we don't have to stop to change them over. Alan - open a single channel to John and make it voice only."

"F-A-B."

He was not the communications wizard that John was, but they could all do this. Actually, Virgil was just as capable of doing it from his seat, but Alan was not about to point that out right now. All he wanted at this moment was for Virgil to keep giving commands, and for those commands to lead to Scott being rescued safely.

"Done. Thunderbird Two calling Thunderbird Five."

"Reading you, Alan - what's happening down there?"

"We've reached danger zone." Virgil interrupted, his voice crisp. "Thunderbird One is intact, but insecure. Rockets still firing. Can you ask Brains what would happen if I drop a load of dicetyline straight into One's afterburners?"

John was silent for a second, then gave a quiet "F-A-B" and there was a click.

"Alan, while we're waiting, go and set up the grabs." Virgil ordered him. "Once we get those jets out, we'll need to lift One out of there. There's a clearing just to the south, and I think they should hold that long, but it's going to be tricky."

"F-A-B."

Spinning out of the co-pilot's seat, he dashed out of the cockpit and through the maze of the forward hold until he reached the right equipment. The grabs generally were not strong enough to lift Thunderbird One, but Brains had recently made some modifications which would help. The apparatus was bulky, but fitted over the grabs like a glove over a hand, distributing the weight more evenly and strengthening the connections. It also offered extra magnets - weaker than the main ones, but strong enough to assist. Without those, One could slip free even before they got her above the forest canopy.

Grunting with the effort, he dragged the equipment into place, deftly fastening the clever twist-locks that Brains had invented. He was three-quarters done when he heard a hissing rumble and recognised the sound of the dicetyline jets in action, muffled through the hull. So Brains had either approved of their plan, or offered a better solution. In any case, time was running out for getting this right. He had to work faster.

Snapping the last connection into place, he did a quick circuit of the machinery to visually check his handiwork. A couple of the twist-locks needed tweaking, and he was on his second circuit when his watch chimed.

"Alan - are you ready?"

"F-A-B, Virgil, grabs ready to go."

"Good. Lowering now."

Alan quickly withdrew away from where the hatch was opening and managed to catch one of the harnesses that hung from the ceiling. The wind threatened to suck him out, but he was determined and managed to get himself secured. As the last clasp fastened, he allowed himself a sigh of relief. It was SOP to put on a harness as soon as you came into this room, no matter the situation - Virgil would have his head if he found out he had not, no matter how much danger Scott was in. They did not need another victim to rescue.

* * *

Gordon watched as Thunderbird One was eased down into the clearing, caught between admiration for Virgil's skill as a pilot and apprehension for Scott's wellbeing. They had still heard nothing from the other pilot. He had been sure Scott would ball them out for clogging up the engines of his precious rocket, yet there had been no sign Scott had even noticed and that, to use a good old turn-of-the-century phrase, was starting to seriously freak him out.

"You'd better go and join Alan." Virgil said abruptly. "I want you two on the ground asap. I'll go back and make sure that fire's out, then I'll be back with you."

Gordon's tongue swelled in his mouth at the thought of being the one to find Scott, choking off his reply, but Alan seemed to have no such problem.

"Um, Virgil, I don't think I can go down there."

"What?" Virgil asked.

"I can't... I don't think I can go down there. Not until we know..."

"Me neither." Gordon admitted.

Virgil's head whipped around to stare at him, confusion plain in his eyes.

"You've both done this a hundred times..."

"But this time it's Scott." Gordon trembled.

Virgil stared at him for a moment, then swung his head back to the job of getting One down on the ground.

"Right." he ground out. "I'll go down. You two check on that fire, then get back here quick. I'll take a medkit, but when you're on the ground bring a stretcher in case we need it. And the toolkit, and the computer override manual. We'll have to see if we can fix whatever's wrong. Right. Releasing grabs. Alan, prepare the winch for me, I'm coming down."

He slapped on the autopilot, rising and turning away. Gordon slipped into the pilot's seat, taking over, but cast a look over his shoulder.

"Virgil... thanks."

Virgil shook his head, getting into the lift.

"Just you get back here quick. And don't dent my bird!"

* * *

Waiting alone in the winch cubicle as Alan moved to the controls, Virgil patted one of the walls reassuringly with one gloved hand, then wondered if he was trying to comfort the ship or himself. There had been times when rescues had been performed without him, when he was injured, but this was the first time he had ever gone into a danger zone leaving someone else at Thunderbird 2's controls and he found he did not like it one little bit. Now he knew how Scott had felt that time he had broken his arm and Alan had had to fly him home in Thunderbird 1. Scott was supposed to have spent the trip in Thunderbird 2's medical bay. Rather uncharacteristically, he had refused to follow orders and had strapped himself into the narrow passenger seat of his own ship. Afterwards, he swore he could have done a better job even with the broken arm, although Alan had pointed out that he had lost consciousness three times on the way home.

"Guide line attached." Gordon's voice came over the internal mike and derailed his reminiscence.

"F-A-B." Alan responded. "Opening hatch."

Virgil gave his youngest brother the thumbs up, then hung on to the harness as the hatch under his feet slid away. Immediately he was buffetted about by the gale-force winds which drove the rain up into the pod. The flame-retardant suit he wore protected him from its icy wetness, but did little to protect him from the cold. All around, whipped up by the swirling winds, the smoke was thick and black and obscured the view. Peering down, he caught a few glimpses of a silvery shape half-buried amongst the heavy foliage which appeared snow-covered given the heavy dousing of dicetyline. Further out, flames were spreading hungrily through the forest, devastating the surroundings. Thankfully, that would not delay him from getting to Scott.

"Alright, Gordon, lowering now." Alan reported.

There was no way they could lower the elevator in these winds - he would be blown about too much and the cable might snap, or it might crash into Thunderbird 2's hull. Thanking god that he did not suffer from vertigo, he kept his eyes fixed firmly down below his feet and began to get a better look of the downed ship. It was intact, which was promising. A bit of damage to the tail, and one aileron would need replacing, but on the whole she was flight-worthy at first glance. Lower, and he could see that Scott had had the shutters down over the windows. That was less reassuring. It was standard operating procedure for travel at high speeds since even reinforced glass could crack at mach six, but he had been hoping that despite Scott's reports he might have been watching his surroundings and made a somewhat controlled crash landing. It appeared now that that was not the case - it was pure luck he had not hit a mountain and been killed instantly.

"He's alive." he muttered to himself quickly, not liking to even think otherwise.

"What was that Virgil?" Gordon asked nervously. "I didn't catch it."

Virgil cleared his throat.

"About ten metres to go. Slow to half speed."

"F-A-B."

"Slowing to half speed." Alan acknowledged, and the line jolted.

He is alive, Virgil told himself silently. And you're going to get him home safe, so stop worrying about it.

* * *

"Coffee, Mr Tracy?"

"Hmm? Oh, no thank you, Kyrano. Tintin, I just don't understand this - those ships are kept in tip-top condition. When was Thunderbird 1's last maintenance check?"

"Monday. Two days ago."

"And you checked the electrical systems?"

"We checked all of the systems, Mr Tracy, just as we always do. Everything was working just fine. I'm sure of it."

"But then why has he crashed?"

His two engineers just shook their heads helplessly, having answered that question to the best of their knowledge three times already. Jeff scrubbed at his hair. Why had this happened? How had it happened? Thunderbird One had been struck by lightning before and nothing like this had ever happened. What was different about this time? A chiming broke into his churning thoughts, and he leapt up.

"John! What news? Is Scott hurt?"

"No word yet, father." John apologised calmly, ever the professional. "Virgil's being winched down to check the scene as we speak."

"Virgil?" Tintin blurted, surprised.

John could not see her given the angle, but he looked to one side as though trying to avoid her gaze anyway.

"That's right." he replied shortly. "Alan and Gordon are just finishing off the fire started with the jets, then they'll go down to help him. I'll be in touch as soon as there's any more news."

"Do that." Jeff told him. "Base out."

The picture winked off and Jeff stared at the paintings, his eyes sliding from John's to Scott's to Virgil's, then back to Scott's. Those two were inseparable, but it took a lot to make Virgil relinquish control of his craft so what did that imply about Virgil's assessment of the situation? Jeff took a deep breath.

"Kyrano?"

"Yes, Mr Tracy?"

"I believe I might like that coffee after all."

* * *

A/N: apologies for the continued cliff-hanger. Don't worry - Virgil'll be down on the ground next chapter


	3. Chapter 3

Warnings: Some unpleasant accident detail in this chapter  
Disclaimer: I do not own Thunderbirds, I make no profit from this, I just like to play in their world.

A/N: I'm not an engineer nor am I a paramedic, and my first aid certificate ran out about ten years ago. Please bear with me through any incorrect medical and/or procedures to follow - I hope there's nothing too glaring. Oh and by the way, we're nowhere near the end here...

* * *

It had taken Virgil six frustrating minutes to get himself to the forward hatch which was awkwardly positioned up and away from the ground, and he was aware of every lost second. He could not get the ladder to descend via the remote signal, and the rain and wind made it difficult to securely attach a climbing line, let alone haul himself up the slippery side of the metal hull.

Pausing only briefly to catch his breath and slick the worst of the water away from his helmet, he opened the perspex cover that concealed the security keypad and entered his personal access code. He was not at all surprised when the hatch remained firmly closed, although more than a little disappointed - it would have made this so much easier. Unlocking the manual control box, he wound the door back inch by painful inch until the gap was wide enough to allow him entry.

"Scott? Can you hear me?"

The first thing he saw upon looking inside, the lamp on his helmet lighting the small space, was that the pilot's seat was not in its customary place. Turning his head toward the forward bulkhead he had to swallow a scream as he saw the seat there, its occupant still harnessed in place. The ejector mechanism must have activated finally with the impact of the crash. Or perhaps when Virgil righted the ship to carry it to the clearing he had jolted it... no, he must not think of blame right now. This was just another rescue, and the victim needed him to squash his emotional responses and be professional. Hurrying over, he noted clinically that the seat had been thrown forward with some degree of force, ending up with the back horizontal to the floor. That meant that Sc... that the victim's legs were trapped beneath it. The harness was not as fully secured as he would have liked with only four straps holding: two had been torn from their seating. Reaching the victim he began searching for signs of life, and then his detachment crumbled as the injured pilot coughed weakly.

"Vir...V..."

"Scott? Oh god, Scott, thank god you're alive."

Scott coughed again, shifting a little.

"V-Virgil?"

"No, Scott, don't move."

"Ca... can't breathe..."

"Hold on, let me grab the medkit."

Virgil hauled his pack around and opened it hurriedly. His hands were shaking, he noted absently. That was unusual - he was always calm on rescues. Scott groaned, his head twitching, and Virgil raised a hand to his brother's shoulder for a second.

"Scott you've got to stay still."

"Can't..."

It was probably the straps. He was resting all his weight on the restraints, which were tight to begin with. But Virgil was not ready to move him just yet, so another solution had to be found. Finally locating the plastic cup-like device they called a 'purifier mask', he eased it over Scott's face. It was not quite as effective as a full oxymask with tank, but it would improve the oxygen flow to Scott's lungs until they could move him, and was less bulky. He also put a cervical collar around his neck in case of whiplash, and almost immediately thought he heard Scott's breathing improve as the airway was held clear. Or perhaps that was just fanciful thinking.

"How bad is it, V?" Scott rasped, his voice fading out a bit at the end of the sentence. "How bad'm I hurt?"

"I don't know yet, I'm just taking precautions. How's your breathing now?"

"Better. A bit. My ch... ugh..." He paused to catch his breath again, then finished. "My chest hurts."

"Alright. What about anywhere else?"

In the meantime, Virgil pulled a roll of bandages out of the pack to begin dressing the long, nasty-looking gash he could see above Scott's left ear. It was bleeding profusely as head wounds always did, obscuring the damage, but he gathered that it was only shallow and focused simply on stopping the blood loss. Further investigation could wait for a proper doctor.

"I d... dunno." Scott mumbled. "Wha'appened? Chair came loose..."

"It finally tried to jettison by the looks of it." Virgil nodded grimly, wadding up some of the bandage and pressing it firmly against the cut.

"Ow!"

"Sorry."

"Are you g'na... do something'bout... these straps or not?"

"Just let me finish doing this."

"Sh'd've done that first." Scott disapproved. "An'... m'leg hurts."

"Oh listen to Mr Field Medic here." Virgil retorted. "Breathing, then bleeding, _then_ bones, Scotty boy."

"Mm. Ow!"

"All done. Right, now lets see about these straps."

"Where're th'others?" Scott demanded. "Why're y'huh... here'lone?"

"Never you mind - we've got it under control. You're the victim here, so play the part."

"I am. M doin'th' hy...sterical bit."

Scott's continuing breathlessness was starting to bother him now, but he made no reference to it.

"Oh, well I should warn you my response'll be the false cheerfulness and coaxing that you always hate so much. Hmm. We might have to sit you up first or you're going to fall straight onto the floor. Did you say it was the right leg giving you trouble?"

"Y'have been so... so far... oh..."

Having moved to better aim the light at the problem area, Virgil looked up again to find his brother had gone ashen.

"Are you okay?"

"D... depends on wh... what you... uh... Virge..."

Virgil grabbed the bowl that they always packed into the medkits for just this situation and pulled the purifier mask up onto the top of his brother's head just in time as Scott retched helplessly. Held still by the safety restraints and with the cervical collar snugly fitted around his neck he was in no danger of hurting himself as he convulsed unless the chair moved. Reaching up to remove the mask completely, he held the back of it firmly in place and reached out to sweep Scott's fringe back from his face. That dark hair was sweat-slicked, and he wondered whether it was a sign of shock setting in now or whether it was just from the fact that his brother had spent the past twenty minutes in a state of terror. It could be either, or both.

"Easy." he murmured comfortingly. "Let it come."

"Virgil?"

Alan's voice caught him by surprise, he had not expected the other two to arrive this quickly.

"Over here, Alan. No, Scott, don't try to look up."

The collar forestalled the movement anyway, but Scott made a clear effort to stop retching, most likely because of the presence of his youngest brothers. It did not work and he half-choked on his own vomit, spluttering and gasping between convulsions.

"Idiot." Virgil scolded him quietly. "You're only making it worse."

"How is he?" Alan asked, bounding ahead of Gordon who had just entered carrying the stretcher.

"Better than he has any right to be under the circumstances." Virgil responded as Scott slumped again. "All done?"

"Mm."

The response was unconvincing.

"Right. Alan, get rid of this for me. Gordon, can you try to shut everything down? Scott's okay where he is for a minute."

Scott mumbled some kind of protest at that, but Virgil ignored him. Brains had agreed that they could clog the engines with dicetyline, but warned that there was a risk the engines could explode if they were not turned off soon afterwards. It had taken too long as it was.

"When Alan comes back," he told his older brother, "we'll get a backboard in behind you, then see about getting you free."

"Don'need a stre... stretcher... c'n walk." Scott mumbled.

"Not on my watch, you can't. You're not lifting so much as a finger until we've got you back in Two's sickbay and checked out."

Scott's eyes had closed, and Virgil put the purifier mask back over his mouth and nose. The injured pilot tried weakly to pull away, but Virgil was firm.

"Don't be childish." he scolded. "You need it."

Scott grunted softly, then winced, then opened his eyes again wide, alarmed.

"Th'ship! I'she okay? Di...di'I...?"

"Stop that, you're hyperventilating. One looks like she's going to be fine, barely even scratched. It's you who's in a mess. Oh Alan, thanks. Right, lets get this backboard in place. You take that side."

* * *

Gordon looked up sharply when he heard Scott cry out in pain loudly enough to be heard over the storm outside, but from this angle he could only see Alan and Virgil crouched over Scott as they had been for the past few minutes. Biting his lip, he turned his attention back to the task at hand, grateful that base could not see the worry on his face with the visual display out of action.

"Alright Brains, what now?"

"E-enter the s-s-central override code again."

"We just tried that."

"Y-yes..."

"Yes, but entered three times sequentially it should open up the programming code." Tintin explained.

"Oh. Okay, I'm doing that now."

"Gordon, I want to speak to Virgil." Jeff intoned.

"Sorry, dad, he's a bit busy right now. They're trying to get Scott untangled. He looks okay, dad, honestly - he's awake and talking to us, we're just having trouble getting him free. Oh! Brains, the screen just filled with lots of figures and there's a command line prompt."

"G-good. Now, ah, turn to page... ah... page fifty-three of the, ah, contingency manual..."

"Fifty-three... fifty-three... forty-seven, fifty, fifty-two... right. You want me to type all this in?"

"Y-yes."

"Okay, hold on a minute."

Working carefully, since he dared not make a mistake, he copied the long alphanumeric string, then hit enter. Immediately, the screen returned to its usual display, awaiting a command. He keyed in the shutdown sequence, and miraculously it worked. The sudden silence from the engines made Virgil and Alan look over at him and the three shared a grin, then the other two turned back to Scott.

"Alright, Brains, we've got the engines offline. I'm going to go and see if the guys need any help. Gordon out."

Not waiting for the inevitable protests, he cut the connection and hurried back to the front of the ship.

"Need a hand?"

"Your timing's perfect." Virgil nodded. "We're going to try to sit the chair up before we undo the restraints. If Alan and I lift, can you guide it back?"

"F-A-B."

"Right, on three. One, two, _three_."

His brothers heaved. It was not that the chair was particularly heavy, though it was metal, but Scott was no minnow and it was an awkward thing to do in an enclosed space. Gordon did what he could to help, and between them they managed to get it upright but the movement proved too much for Scott who began to vomit again. Gordon hurried to pull the mask off his brother. It was ruined, but they had plenty of spare ones so he was not much concerned. Alan grabbed for a bowl but not quick enough to stop some of the fluid dribbling down Scott's chin and onto his shirt. Gordon grit his teeth, turning away. Throwing the ruined mask into the bag that Virgil had set aside for waste, he grabbed some of the cleanwipes they kept on hand and turned back to wipe his brother's chin. He half-expected Virgil to take them from him but the other pilot was kneeling down, examining Scott's legs.

"Gordon, grab me a splint, will you?" he asked, gently unlacing Scott's left boot.

"Hang on." Gordon warned him, finishing his task, then finding the required piece of equipment.

Bringing it around, he found that Virgil had managed to remove the boot and cut up the seam of Scott's trousers. There was an unhealthy twist in Scott's shin, and it had begun swelling.

"Is... is't... broken?" Scott choked between convulsions.

"Looks like it, but it hasn't broken the skin." Virgil reported to him. "We'll strap it up. Gordo - can you take over?"

"Sure."

He set about doing that and Virgil rose and looked about.

"Right, lets see about getting you out of here."


	4. Chapter 4

Warnings: Some swearing, including Virgil saying a very bad word  
Disclaimer: I do not own Thunderbirds, nor do I make any profit from this.

VSM Vital Signs Monitor

* * *

Alan grimaced at the stench from the bowl he was carrying. He hated dealing with victims who threw up: it always made him feel queasy too. The fact that it was Scott who was tossing his cookies did not make it any better. As before, he clambered down the ladder they had set up then emptied it out and used the pouring rain to rinse it. It meant getting wet but he was dressed for the weather.

Turning back to the ladder, he looked up at it grimly. There was no way they were going to get Scott down on his feet. True, he was not at death's door - a small cut on the side of his head, a twisted leg, and possible concussion or whiplash did not constitute a major panic, not after everything they had seen in the past three and a half years. Still, they would have to stretcher him out and that would not be a great deal of fun for any of them in this weather.

Returning to the cockpit, he found that Virgil had cut away the harness and Gordon was holding Scott still while Virgil checked his torso for injuries. Alan was reassured to see Virgil straighten and run a hand absently through his wet fringe.

"Well, you're gonna have one heck of a bruise where the straps cut into you, but I don't think anything's broken. You were damned lucky, Scooter."

"Language, V." Scott scowled.

Gordon laughed.

"That's it - he's fine. We should let him walk home."

"Or fly home." Scott grumbled, and Alan noticed that his breathing was less laboured now that the straps had been removed.

"I don't think so." Virgil told him. "You're going to ride home lying in the sickbay if I have to knock you out to make sure of it."

"You wouldn't."

"Don't push me. Oh, Alan, you're back. Right, lets get him on the stretcher."

"How are we going to do this?" Gordon asked.

"Easiest way'd be to tip the chair right over on its back, and lift him on the backboard." Alan pointed out.

"Good idea." Virgil agreed. "Lets do it."

Scott protested the move, but they all ignored him and they soon had him flat on the stretcher. It was a relief to have him secure, but Alan again wondered just how they were going to evacuate him.

Virgil tested the snugness of the final restraint, not wanting it to be too tight across Scott's chest with the bruising there but knowing better than to leave it loose.

"Looks like the malistat's working." he commented, clueing Alan in to the fact that they had given Scott something to settle his stomach even as he looked for confirmation from his older brother.

Scott gave him a weary glare, probably still annoyed that Virgil had used the hypodermic without warning him. Still, Virgil was unrepentant. If he had asked, Scott would have insisted he could manage without it and they would have risked him choking on his own vomit when they put him on his back.

"Alright, fellas, lets get moving. I'd better call base before dad blows a gasket, Gordon can you let John know the situation, and Alan you'd better start looking at those engines before... What's wrong?"

Scott had suddenly gone ashen and Virgil leaned in closer.

"Scott? What's wrong?"

He received no response as Scott's eyes rolled back in his head. Virgil's head whipped around to look at the medical supplies his brothers had brought from Two but did not see what he needed so he looked to Alan.

"Is there a VSM on board?"

Alan nodded, spinning away to get it, and Virgil saw Gordon grab at Scott's wrist.

"His pulse is a bit slow." the aquanaut reported. "But strong. Skin's clammy."

"Shock, maybe." Virgil muttered, hoping it was nothing worse. "It's probably just shock."

Gordon nodded, opening his mouth to say something, but then there was suddenly a metallic groaning.

"What the...?" Virgil began, then realised what was happening. "The wind! It's tipping us over. Get down!"

He dropped to the 'floor', holding on to a metal girder with all his strength as the wind rolled the silver rocket over. Without the landing gear down there was nothing to brace them... well, nothing except for the tail section. He winced as he felt the ship judder and heard the screech of metal being twisted. At the same moment, the emergency lighting flickered out, plunging them into darkness.

The rolling stopped after a few terrifying seconds, the ship rocking slightly, and Virgil tried to orient himself as well as he could without letting go. They had rolled approximately ninety degrees, judging by gravity's pull, leaving him now halfway up the wall on one side. Staying up here was not an option, and he began feeling for secure footholds to help himself back down again. His torch still swung from his belt, but he lacked a hand to reach for it, and his helmet with its in-built lamp had been set down when Gordon had gotten the lights on earlier. And while he was thinking of his younger brother, how was he faring?

"Gordon?" he called. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah." the response came readily. "I jumped on the stretcher."

"On the stretcher?" Virgil asked, incredulous. "With Scott?"

"Yeah. The antigrav kept us upright. Where are you?"

"Have you got your torch?"

"Wait a minute. Okay. Oh, there you are."

Virgil twisted his head away from the light.

"Thanks." he muttered, then raised his voice. "Can you find the control panel? Lets see if we can get the lights back on."

Gordon panned around slowly, then he swore and the beam of light shifted so abruptly that Virgil thought he had dropped it.

"Are you okay?" he asked urgently.

"Virgil, the hatch!" Gordon cried. "We've rolled right over onto the hatch - we're trapped in here!"

* * *

Scott woke and wondered why he had been asleep. Then the pain and nausea hit him and he wondered why he had awoken. That, at least, was easily answered: the storm outside had become even more ferocious, and the sound of the rain and what was probably hail hitting the metal fuselage of Thunderbird One was deafening. The only thing louder was the shouted conversation his brothers were having. But why was Virgil so far away that Gordon had to shout, and why was they still in One when they had been supposedly getting him into Two? How long had he been out?

"Just a little higher!" Gordon was yelling.

"Easy for you to say!" Virgil snapped back irritably. "I need something to stand on."

"What about that spar?"

"I don't know if it's strong enough and I'm not going to trust my weight to it... right. Okay. Okay I can just reach from here, but I can't see what I'm doing."

Scott blinked and opened his eyes, but everything was dark except for a glow to his right. He tried to turn his head to look, but the neck brace stopped him. Irritated, he called out.

"What are you doing?"

His voice was startlingly weak, even to his own ears, and he was mildly surprised to realise he had been heard at all over the racket outside.

"Hang on Virge." Gordon called. "Scott's awake."

"Hanging on." Virgil sighed.

A torch beam swept over him, though thankfully not directly into his eyes.

"Hey, Scott. How're you feeling?"

"Why's it so dark in here?"

"Power's off, remember?"

"Yeah but..." he began to protest, then coughed helplessly.

"Okay, that's it, no more talking." Gordon told him. "Stay put for a minute, we're trying to get the lights on."

The light moved away again, leaving him in darkness once more.

"Okay... okay, you're touching the vertical thrust, I think. So left... no, keep going... okay, I think it's that one. Or maybe the one above it."

"Gordon!" Virgil groaned.

"Hang on! Scott - the lights on the main panel, are they on the far left side, or one in?"

"Far left. But..."

"Shh. Yeah, that one, V. Hit it."

"Here goes nothing."

There was a click, then a whine from the atomic engine. A second later, the room was once again filled with the dim glow of the emergency lights. Which was when Scott realised he was staring directly up at the Automatic Camera Detector. But if the camera detector was on the roof...?

"She's on her side!" he wheezed, struggling to sit up. "What happened? Wha... huh..."

Gordon was back at his side, trying to get him to relax, but he ignored the redhead. How had this happened? He knew the hatch had been open before, he had heard Virgil winding it back and felt the breeze, but if the ACD was above him then the hatch must be beneath him. He knew this ship too well not to know that. Which effectively meant they were all trapped in here. Unless... unless Alan was in Two. He clearly was not here. But Alan was not trained to fly Two, let alone pick up One with it... His attention was brought back to his surroundings as he felt the sting of a needle in his arm - another needle. Yelping, he focused on the figure above him, an apologetic Virgil.

"I'm sorry, Scott, but the rest'll do you good." he was saying.

"No... Virgil..." he tried to protest.

But it was no good. The sedative, for that was what the drug must be, was already taking hold. His eyes slipped closed, and that was that.

* * *

"Fuck." Virgil swore softly, making Gordon turn toward him in surprise.

Virgil coloured, but did not apologise for his choice of language.

"I didn't want to sedate him. If he's concussed... Well I don't think he is. I hope he isn't. God, I hope he isn't. Where's Alan got to, anyway? We need that VSM more than ever now he's out."

Gordon shook his head.

"I'll go and check. You had to do it, Virge. He was only going to hurt himself."

Virgil nodded unhappily, but turned to rifle back through the medkit again. Gordon gave Scott one last glance, then strode towards the hold door which was now parallel to the 'floor'. As he did so, he remembered that Virgil had told him to contact John. Keying on his watch communicator, he spoke as he walked.

"Gordon to Thunderbird Five."

"Gordon! What's happening? Dad's going ballistic. Hey, you're bleeding!"

Gordon blinked, then raised a hand to his cheek to find moisture there.

"Hey, I am." he said, surprised. "Gee, I never even felt it. Ooh, I can feel it now, though. Thanks, Johnny."

"What's happening?" John ground out again.

"One rolled over." Gordon sighed. "The wind blew us straight over, and we all went for a bit of a tumble. Anyway, we're gonna have a bit of trouble getting out just at the moment."

"Why's that?" John demanded.

"Because we've rolled over on the side. The hatch is down in the dirt. We might be able to get out through the equipment hatch, I guess, but it depends on whether... oh hell! Uh, gotta go Johnny, bye."

Keying off the link, he climbed through the now opened doorway. Alan was on the floor, crumpled in the corner, half-hidden under a pile of equipment that had come loose.

"Alan! Can you hear me? God we don't need this now. Virgil, get in here!"

Alan must have pulled the stretchers and Mobile Control Unit out to get to the VSM, he guessed. There was no other explanation for why there was so much debris when this equipment locker was designed to take a bashing. Casting about for the small black electronic device, he finally spotted it in the corner. Wasting no time, he attached the leads to Alan, and sighed in relief as it began calibrating. They were delicate things, and it was just as likely it would have been damaged in the movement.

"What's going on in h... Alan!"

"This day's just getting better and better." Gordon muttered, then looked down as the machine bleeped. "Pulse is good, blood oxygen's good. Blood pressure is... dropping? He must be bleeding."

"If we're lucky, it's his legs." Virgil said, moving closer to help move items away.

"Uh, Virge?"

"Yeah?"

"It's not our lucky day."

Virgil looked at him, then at where he was pointing. Where a pool of blood was emerging by Alan's chest.

* * *

John stared at the blank screen in frustration, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. He understood that sometimes conversation had to give way to the situation, and that his brothers knew what they were doing and would never leave him hanging any longer than they absolutely had to, but this was getting to be too much. Scott was his brother too, dammit, and 'oh hell, gotta go' was not a good way to end a conversation when you were trying to reassure someone. He loved Gordon dearly, but right now he wanted to strangle the redheaded idiot. What had happened? Was Thunderbird One rolling over again? Had the storm gotten worse?

He glanced at the weather readout and scowled. The weather was definitely getting worse. If it intensified much more, they would not be able to get One off the ground even if she was airworthy, and it would be risky trying it with Two. He swallowed, realising that that also meant that if Scott needed to be rushed to medical care, they could not do it. His anger drained away, leaving only cold fear. Surely it would not come to that? Gordon had said he was mostly alright, and he had not been lying. John always knew when Gordon was lying. Still, something had gone wrong. Something more. He sank into his chair.

"Come on guys." he muttered. "Call back. Tell me what's going on. Please."


	5. Chapter 5

Warning: a bit of gore in this chapter

Disclaimer: I don't own Thunderbirds, nor do I make any profit from this. I don't own PolyHeme either.

A/N: PolyHeme - this artificial substitute for real blood is real (try googling it). Davopax is purely my invention. I know this first bit is a bit gory, but this is as bad as it gets for the whole story - I hope it won't put too many people off.

* * *

Virgil heard Gordon say something as the aquanaut rolled Alan over, but he could neither respond nor move. He was frozen in place, staring at the horror before him.. The open toolbox. The screwdriver wedged between other tools, poking upright. The huge gaping tear in Alan's uniform, the blue material stained black with crimson blood, pinkish-white loops of tissue pushing through... Almost too late, he threw himself to one side and emptied his stomach onto the lid of a sealed box of supplies. It helped a little, the involuntary movement breaking him out of his paralysis, and he shuddered as he regained control of himself.

"What do we do?" Gordon was panicking. "Virgil! We can't get out of here, we're trapped, and he needs a doctor. What are we going to do?"

Virgil pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped at his mouth, then forced himself to take another look. Yes, the screwdriver had torn a hole in Alan's abdomen. First aid classes had covered this sort of thing. He had to push all of the intestines back inside, then cover the wound and staunch the bleeding as well as possible, then get Alan to a hospital before he... before it was too late. There was a medkit in the compartment beside him. Three of them in fact, ready for use, but he only needed one for now. Ignoring Gordon and trying not to think about what he was doing, he followed the procedure he had been taught, finishing up with a bandage which he made as tight as possible. Giving it one last tug, he froze at the sound of a low moan.

"Alan, was that you? Alan! Can you hear me?"

Alan groaned again but did not answer. The bandages were already becoming discoloured, but he was more worried about the fact that Alan had started trembling. It was shock setting in, from the pain if not from the blood loss.

"Gordon, find me some blankets." he ordered, searching for the right pre-charged hypodermic needle.

They were not doctors, but they had learned enough to keep people alive for awhile. That was all he wanted to do right now, and the best way to do that was dull Alan's pain and get him warm.

"Gordon!" he snapped, realising that his brother still had not moved. "Blankets!"

Gordon stared at him.

"But..."

"Now, T4! He's going into shock!"

Gordon swallowed whatever protest he had been about to make, gave Alan one last glance, then disappeared. Virgil let out a sigh of relief that it was Gordon who was helping him and not Alan. Gordon and Scott both responded well to orders under stress after their respective tours in the military. Alan was more likely to argue the more stressed he got.

"Wake up and argue with me." he muttered, swabbing Alan's arm with an antiseptic before using the needle. "I'd even put up with you telling bad jokes. Just don't give up on us."

He had just put the needle back in the kit when Gordon came back, carrying not blankets but an armful of uniforms.

"What're those for?" Virgil asked irritably.

"There _are_ no blankets." Gordon said, dumping the clothing on top of a crate and grabbing a shirt to wrap around Alan's shoulders. "We didn't bring any over from Two, and One never carries any."

Virgil was well aware of the latter, but was incredulous over the former.

"You didn't _bring_ any? What were we going to wrap Scott in for the trip back?"

Gordon shook his head.

"I didn't think. I just wanted to get over here and make sure he was okay."

Virgil opened his mouth again to chide him for that, then changed his mind. After all, he had not thought of it himself until now either. Usually he was clear-headed on a rescue, but it was different this time. Perhaps because they were all exhausted after the long day's work, perhaps because Scott was the one who was injured, perhaps because it had been so unexpected. They would manage in spite of the lapse, but the sooner they were home the happier he would be: he was tired and heartily sick of this whole situation, and the sound of rain and wind on the hull was starting to drum into his skull and drive him mad.

"We'll have to get him onto another stretcher." he warned. "We might still go over again and we don't want him falling on anything else."

Gordon nodded absently.

"I'll get him wrapped up and a backboard behind him. I can do that. You can go check on Scott."

Virgil blinked. That was why Alan had been in here in the first place, to find a VSM to monitor Scott. Alan had found the VSM - singular, for Virgil very much doubted there was more than one on board - but now he needed it more than Scott did.

"Scott'll just have to hold on." he decided. "Alan's more important right now. But you carry on - I'm going to report back to John and base before anything else goes wrong."

"Better you than me." Gordon murmured.

Virgil grimaced, but made no comment.

* * *

"Calling Thunderbird Five."

John gulped down the tea he had just sipped and reached for the panel.

"Reading you, Virgil. What's going on down there?"

Virgil looked tired and harried, John noted. Not a good sign.

"Too much." Virgil sighed. "Can you patch me through to base, but stay on the line? I don't want to have to say this twice, and it's not fair to relay it through you - I don't know what dad's going to do when I tell him."

"Tell him what? What's happened to Gordon?"

Virgil looked perplexed.

"Gordon? Gordon's fine."

"Alright, hold on."

John made the connection easily, feeling a little like some kind of twentieth-century switchboard operator.

"Thunderbird Five calling base."

"Go ahead, John, what news?"

"I've got Virgil on the line and he wants to talk to you."

"Good. Put him through."

"Patching through now."

"Virgil this is totally unacceptab... dear god is that blood on your hand?"

Virgil had been pulling off a glove and now stared at it for a moment before shaking his head and setting it aside.

"It's not mine." he said absently, then refocused. "Dad, we're in serious trouble here. I had to sedate Scott, so he's out of it, and Alan's cut himself pretty badly. Thunderbird One rolled in the wind, and we all went sprawling, but he fell on... on something sharp. It doesn't matter. Gordon's watching him. We've got him hooked up to a VSM and I think he's stable for now, but he needs hospital attention and Scott does too. But we can't get out. The movement blocked the top hatch completely, and we're on a bad angle for the equipment hatch - I don't think it'd open more than a foot if we tried it. We could roll again any minute, too, but we can't rely on that."

"I-is there a dicetyline, uh, cutter on board, Virgil?" Brains asked.

Virgil blinked, probably as horrified by the thought of cutting into the hull of one of their own ships as John was, but then took a deep breath and shook his head.

"No. Not since we rearranged the hold: all the manual equipment's on Two. We've got the MCU, half a dozen medkits, a couple of stretchers, munitions for One's defences... nothing we can use."

"There's another problem." John put in, unhappily. "My satellite picture's showing white in your area now. Even if you could get out, you couldn't take off. And that's even assuming you could make it back to Two with the stretchers."

There was a brief silence, then Virgil spoke with quiet confidence.

"If I can get us back to Two, I can fly us out of here. Bad weather or no. But we've got to get out of here first."

"How serious are your brothers' injuries?" their father asked, his voice hushed with shock.

"Scott's not too badly off. He's either sprained or broken his left leg, and he's got a small cut on his head, but it's not serious. We've got him in a cervical brace and on a backboard, but it's all precautionary - he's still got sensation in his limbs, and he's not complaining of back pain. His eyes are focusing, but I thought he might be a bit concussed from the impact. He's a bit bruised and shaken, but nothing much more than that."

"Then why did you, ah, sedate him?" Brains asked.

Virgil grimaced.

"He got a bit upset when he realised One was rolling around on the ground."

John bit his lip. Judging by Virgil's expression, Scott had been more than 'a bit' upset. He had probably been hysterical.

"What about Alan?" their father prompted.

Now Virgil became a little more cagey.

"He's a bit battered, dad, but we've got it under control for now. We've got him bandaged up, and he'll be okay for awhile, but we haven't got any saline or PolyHeme here - it's all on Two. All the supplies are on Two. Dammit, we've got to get _out_ of here!"

John blinked. In spite of the seriousness of the situation, he had to bite his tongue to keep from chiding Virgil for the expletive. Yet their father seemed not to notice.

"Is he awake?"

"Alan?" Virgil checked, though he seemed to be hedging. "I don't know. Gordon's with him. I've given him a shot of davopax, so he's not exactly going to be any help for awhile."

Davopax? That was the strongest of the analgesics that the medkits carried, used to block the pain centres in a victim's brain so that they could be moved without losing consciousness. But it had to be used carefully because the victim was likely to cause more damage to themselves while under its influence because they simply could not feel any pain from whatever they did.

"Ah, V-virgil." Brains interrupted. "What about the, ah, missile hatch? That should be clear of the, ah, ground."

"Well yes, Brains, but it's only about a foot wide. How's that going to help?"

"Now, ah, Virgil, Th-thunderbird One has an, ah, inflatable raft. For sea rescues."

John frowned, trying to guess where Brains was going with this. Yes, Scott carried a raft that he could drop for survivors he found in the ocean until Virgil could arrive with Gordon to pick them up, but what did that have to do with the missile hatch? And how was it going to help any of them? Yet even as Virgil was answering in the affirmative, a signal went off. Irritated, John muted the conversation - though glanced at the panel to ensure it was recording so he missed nothing - then went to answer the call. It was audio only, and he ran it through a filter to clean up the signal while also running a locator subroutine to trace the source.

"International Rescue, your call is received, go ahead please."

"International Rescue, thank god! The building's on fire! Our building. The Thompson Tower."

"Thompson Tower, are the local services attending?"

"Yes, but it's getting out of control!"

"I'm sorry Thompson Tower, but our operatives are involved in another rescue at this time. We cannot get anyone out to you. How many people are trapped?"

"People? Uh... I don't know... we evacuated an hour ago, but now the building's threatening to fall... I don't think there's anyone inside."

John closed his eyes in relief.

"Keep us informed, Thompson Tower, but at this time we cannot assist. Current commitments require at least two more hours attendance before we can move to another site."

It was the standard response when his brothers were on a callout, and he had given it dozens of times, but it was always easier to do when there were no lives at risk.

"But... aren't you going to come and help?"

"We are in place to save lives, Thompson Tower, not buildings. We recommend liaising closely with the emergency services on site. They can contact us if they feel the situation warrants it. International Rescue signing off."

Closing down the channel, he paused briefly to scan the other alerts and confirm that there was nothing else pending, then turned the volume up again on the conversation he really wanted to hear.

"Are you sure this is going to work, Brains?" Virgil was asking dubiously.

"I think there's a very good, ah, chance, V-Virgil." Brains qualified.

"Alright, then, we'll try it. I'll call you back and let you know how it went. Virgil out."

Base also cut off, and John frowned at the blank screen then began to replay the recording. He wanted to know what was going on.

* * *

Gordon looked at Virgil in disbelief.

"And they really think this is going to work?"

"If you have a better idea, now's the time to speak up." Virgil told him, pausing to look over the VSM. "You know, you should've called me. You shouldn't be lifting him on your own."

Gordon shook his head. His brothers worried about his back, but getting Alan onto the stretcher had not been any more difficult than other things he had done for International Rescue before. He had managed.

"You know, Scott's going to be furious about what we're doing to his 'bird."

"He'll get over it. Has Alan's temperature gone up a bit?"

Gordon glanced at the readout and nodded.

"Half a degree. It could just be the wrappings."

"Mm. Well, we'd better get on with this. Can you get him out with Scott while I free the inflatable?"

"Sure."

He certainly did not want Alan to be in the hold when the craft shifted again - they did not need anything else falling on him. Guiding the stretcher out carefully, and once again blessing Brains' genius in designing the antigravity repulsors that made it possible for one person to move an immobilised victim, he paused when he stepped out into the cockpit.

There was always the chance that the two stretchers could crash into each other when One rolled. Now what could he do to stop that happening? Chewing on his lip thoughtfully, he eyed the stretchers, then nodded to himself. Hurrying back into the hold, he began rifling through the cabinets.

"What are you after?" Virgil asked him, looking up from the nut he was unscrewing.

The raft was designed to be dropped from a hatch beneath One - a hatch which was now halfway up the wall - and to inflate upon impact. Virgil was having to try to gain access to it through a rarely-used maintenance panel. If only the hatch had direct access, Gordon might have tried to climb out through it. He was the smallest of the five brothers, after all. But he could not contort himself through the access panel, and Virgil was too big to try. As to Virgil's question, Gordon barely acknowledged it.

"I'll be back in a minute." he promised, dashing back to the cockpit.

Two spare backboards and a supply of rope were all the supplies he needed, and by the time Virgil joined him he had converted the two stretchers into one single one, securely fastened together.

"Nice work." Virgil said, impressed.

"Thanks."

"Have either of them stirred?"

Gordon's sense of accomplishment faded again.

"Alan's moaned a couple of times, but he's not answering me."

Virgil shook his head.

"He'll be okay, Gordon. They both will. Now help me with this."

Between them they lifted the internal sheeting that covered the missile hatch, carefully removed the Gatling gun and as much of the surrounding mechanical gadgetry as they could, then opened the outer hatch. Immediately cold air flooded inside, water spraying up into the hole that they had made, and they could see the ground about an arm's length from the ground.

"I hope none of the wiring shorts in this." Virgil muttered. "We don't need that right now."

Gordon did not bother to comment, but he was hoping the same thing. Together, they carefully positioned the compacted raft, squeezing it into the hole that was really too small for it, not giving up until it had completely blocked out the weather. Then they looped a rope through a rowlock and tied it off on the bulkhead. Pausing to wipe the sweat off his face, Gordon looked at his brother.

"Alright. You handle this, I'll sort out the wings."

"Are you sure you can manage?" Virgil asked.

"Absolutely."

"Alright then."

Gordon grimaced as he headed towards the 'wall' where the main control panel was hanging. The fact was that all that bending over and twisting and pushing - particularly after the events of the day - had strained the muscles in his back, and he wanted to stretch out. He should probably tell Virgil, but he would not. After all, what could Virgil do about it? Usually, when his back twinged he just went and laid down for awhile. That was not an option right now, and would not become an option anytime soon if they did not manage to get out of here.

It was awkward clambering up into a position where he could reach the controls. He was not as tall as Virgil, so needed to climb higher. On the other hand he was not as heavy either, so he could step up on the spar he had noticed before and trust it to hold his weight. For a little while at least.

"Alright." he called. "Extending wings."

He flipped on the switch, then began keying in override codes as the computer tried to argue that they were not airborne. There was an awful grinding sound as one of the wings tried to bury itself in the ground, and that set off a noisy alarm. Glancing anxiously across at Scott, Gordon saw his brother's expression darken into a frown, his head twitching. More happily, he saw Alan's eyes open, the blond blinking and trying to look about.

Finally getting the alarm to shut off, he heard a hissing sound and realised that Virgil had begun inflating the raft. It was a crazy plan, but he prayed it would work. In theory, the raft would push down against the ground and make the ship roll just a bit further over, clearing the top hatch. The partially extended wing would stop them rolling too far, and secure the ship against the wind. Crazy? Definitely. And the damage it was doing to Thunderbird One would be extensive. Not only was Gordon completely ruining the wings, the raft was tearing a hole in the hull as it filled with air and became rigid.

Virgil was doing what he could to keep most of the raft outside without letting it fall out completely, but it was not an easy task even with the rope in place. Gordon wanted to go to help him, but he had to stay where he was just a little longer and make sure that the wings extended as far as possible. And they were moving, finally! The ship creaked, then groaned and there was a loud clanging crash as the loose pilot's seat crashed back down to ground level, and then they were moving.

Gordon keyed a final command into the panel which was now rotating jerkily towards the ceiling, and jumped out of the way. As he hit the 'floor', what was usually the ceiling in horizontal mode, the whole ship shuddered. The wing had hit the ground, and they were trapped between the pressure of the raft and the strength of the wing.

"Tie it off!" he yelled, gaining his feet. "Tie it off quick before... Virgil!"


	6. Chapter 6

Disclaimer: I do not own Thunderbirds, nor do I make any profit from this.

VSM Vital Signs Monitor  
MCU Mobile Control Unit

* * *

Alan stared at the ceiling queasily, wondering what he had drunk to make the room move like that and why no-one had stopped him. Then he remembered where he was, and realised that the room really was moving. By the time he sorted out that concept, it had stopped again. There was a crashing noise, and the groaning of metal, but he ignored it for the moment. Why was he lying down, wrapped up in layers of... uniforms? Strapped down to a stretcher. He must have been injured, but he did not remember it happening. What had happened? A soft beeping gave him a clue, and he twisted his head to look in surprise at an active VSM resting by his shoulder. That was right, he had gone to find a VSM for Scott. And then the ship had moved... oh yes, and everything had come crashing down on top of him. He remembered seeing the MCU moving and trying to dive out of its way, then everything had gone black.

Clearly, he had been knocked out, and injured in some way too. But he did not feel injured. He was aware of a dull throbbing in his stomach, but it seemed rather distant. Everything seemed rather distant, including Gordon's shouting. He must be drugged. Wait, Gordon was shouting?

"Gordy?" he tried to shout back. "Over here!"

"I heard you, Alan, I'll be with you in a minute!" his brother replied, sounding harried.

Alan blinked.

"Okay."

He could wait. He glanced back at the VSM and noted irritably that it was turned away from him, so he could not see his own status. Well that was standard. Peering beyond it, he wondered why his stretcher was tied together with Scott's. Unable to get his head around that one, he noted that Scott was shifting slightly as though suffering a nightmare. He frowned. How long had it been since Scott lost consciousness? The last he remembered it had just happened, but that must have been some time ago given the fact that Virgil and Gordon had had time to get him out here and set up on the stretcher.

"It's okay, Scott." he called to his brother, feeling odd to be reassuring the older man when it was usually the other way around. "We'll be out of here soon. Everything's going to be fine."

* * *

"You could've been killed."

"I wasn't."

Gordon just glared at him, shaking his head and pulling a splint out of the medkit.

"Gordy, I'm okay." Virgil said more softly.

"No, you're not." Gordon said through gritted teeth. "You're not and I'm not. None of us are. We're not thinking straight. We should've seen that you were right where the chair was going to fall. We should've _seen_ it. It's our _job_."

Virgil turned his head away, willing himself not to cry out as Gordon applied the splint to his broken arm. Gordon had a point: they should have seen the consequences, but they had not. They had not because they were so tired and stressed, and because they were taking all of this personally rather than working professionally. How many times had they been lectured on the importance of acting professionally?

It was only when he had heard the clattering above him that he had remembered the seat. If he had not been in so many dangerous situations over the years, he might have paused to look up at it and if he had wasted time doing that then it would likely have crushed him. Instead, he had thrown himself to one side. It had still been too late to get away completely, and it had crashed into his arm as he moved, but it could have been worse. So much worse.

"Nngh!"

"Sorry. Okay, how's that?"

Virgil drew his arm closer, cradling it against his chest as he blinked away involuntary tears from when Gordon had tightened the pressure cast.

"Sore." he said shortly. "But I'll live. Hey! No, no drugs - I need a clear head if I'm going to fly us out of here."

Gordon paused, holding the needle ready.

"What makes you think I'm going to let you into the cockpit like this?" he asked flatly.

"You let me?" Virgil echoed. "Gordon, if you think I'm going to let you touch those flight controls in this weather, you must be mad."

"I'm the only uninjured one left."

"And you're an aquanaut, not a pilot."

"I can fly. Not as well as you or Scott, but I can do it."

"In this weather? No."

"And you could? Broken arm and all?"

"Yes."

"Bollocks."

Virgil opened his mouth to argue, but then his gaze landed on Scott and he paused. He did not argue often with his brothers but when he did it was inevitably with either Alan or Gordon, more often Gordon, and usually it was Scott who broke it up. But right now Scott was relying on them both to work together and sort this out.

"Look." he tried to compromise. "Lets just all get over to Two. Then we can argue about who's doing what. When we've got them in the sickbay."

Gordon glanced over his shoulder then put the needle back in its case.

"Alright. So how're we going to do this?"

They both stared out into the darkness, then Gordon spoke again.

"Can you get the stretchers separated?"

"Yes." Virgil said confidently, though in truth he was far from sure.

"Right. I'll go across and create a guide line. Then I'll bring another one back, along with the rain covers for the stretchers. It'll make them harder to handle, but we need to keep them dry."

Virgil nodded.

"Sounds good. Lets find you a harness and wire reel."

* * *

"Dad?"

His father did not answer immediately, still staring off to the right of the screen. At his brothers' portraits, John surmised, and tried again.

"Dad, can I talk to you for a minute?"

Jeff blinked.

"John. I didn't hear you. Has Virgil called in again?"

John tried not to let his distaste for his father's detachment show on his face. It was not Jeff's fault - Brains had had to give him something to calm him down before he gave himself a heart attack, worrying. John understood it, he had not liked the way his father had gone so grey after Virgil had signed off, but the ensuing detachment did not make it easy to deal with him.

"Not yet, dad. I've been thinking, though. What are we going to do when they get out of One?"

"Get out of one what? Oh. You mean Thunderbird One."

"Yes. From the sounds of things, Scott and Alan both need a doctor. Are we going to get Virgil to divert to a hospital and drop them off as IR operatives, or are we going to bring them home first and take them in as the Tracys? We're going to need a watertight cover story if we do that, but that might be better."

"Oh, but what about Alan!" Tintin interrupted, coming into the camera's range. "Surely they should be taken straight to a hospital!"

She had been crying, clearly, most likely over Alan. Virgil's description of Alan's injuries had hardly been tactful, and John wondered vaguely if Virgil might also be suffering a bit from shock.

"It's difficult to say without more detail." he said carefully. "But the fact is that there really aren't any hospitals nearby. Not ones where the technology is up to date, anyway. And to be honest, I think Virgil and Gordon are running on adrenaline, and the second they get Alan and Scott to safety they're going to collapse. Better that they do it at home. That way, at least, we can keep it under control."

"But John, Virgil said Alan was bleeding." Tintin protested. "He needs a hospital."

"He needs a professional assessment." John qualified. "Look, if he's seriously hurt, Virgil won't even wait for orders before he diverts - he'll just do it. We've all been doing this for long enough to know when something's life-threatening, and Virgil and Gordon are more on the front line than any of the rest of us. But assuming that they are coming home, we need to be ready for them. I think it's time to tell Doc Callenson the truth."

Tintin gasped, but John kept his attention focused on his father.

"Dad, you've had him checked out half a dozen times and he's clean. You know that. And he's a good guy, at heart - that's why he's caused us so much trouble. He worries about us. Telling him the truth is the only way we're ever going to... hold on, transmission coming through from Gordon. Gordon - go ahead, I'm on with base."

Gordon was drenched, his hair plastered down against his head, his skin pale with cold.

"Oh." he said, clearly not expecting the direct link. "Oh right. Brains, if you're there - thanks. It worked a charm."

"You're wet." Jeff noted.

"Uh, yeah dad. The weather's not letting up."

"How are your brothers?"

Gordon seemed to flinch at the question, then shook his head.

"They're still back in One. We're going to move across now, but I'm setting up some guide lines or we'll lose the stretchers in the wind. I'm calling to say we'll be out of contact for about twenty minutes doing that and getting things settled, then one of us'll call in again."

"F-A-B, son."

Gordon frowned, then nodded.

"Alright. Two out."

John looked unhappily at the now blank screen. Something told him Gordon had had some other news, news that he would have shared if he were just talking to John instead of to their father. News that would now remain untold.

"John?"

He tore his eyes away and back to the main screen.

"Yes dad?"

"Call Jeremiah, son. You're right. We need his help."

"F-A-B."

* * *

Gordon slogged back to Thunderbird One through the mud, fighting the wind and rain as he moved hand over hand along the wire he had already strung. The second was currently clipped to the full body harness he was wearing. He had practically had to crawl across to Two to avoid being blown away, and it would be far worse with the stretchers to manoeuvre. Much worse with Virgil being one-handed.

It was stupid, getting in an argument with Virgil at this point. Stupid and unprofessional. They were both tired, they were both fighting off the emotional shock of Scott and Alan's injuries, and they had both gotten a fright when the loose pilot's seat had fallen, but it was no excuse to revert to childhood bickering. Virgil was right in one thing at least - there was no way Gordon would even attempt to take off in this weather. It was so wet that he could almost have launched Thunderbird Four in it, and the wind was gusting well past seventy knots. Virgil could handle Two in these conditions, Gordon had seen him do it. But with a broken arm? He had no idea, and he suspected Virgil was not so sure either.

The fact was, they may have little choice but to try. There was no doubt in his mind that they needed to get Alan to some kind of medical facility as soon as possible, and Scott and Virgil too. They were still several hours flight from base, even at supersonic speed, although that could be cut down if they pushed to rescue speed and got lucky with the weather. A grim smile curved his lips. They had not been very lucky so far, surely they must be due some luck about now?

As though to disabuse him of that notion, a moment later a wind gust caught the wire he was leading and tugged it viciously sideways. The movement yanked him off balance and his back cramped painfully as it was twisted. He fell into the mud, gasping, seeing stars before his eyes. Not now, oh God he could not be incapacitated now. Not when they were all counting on him.

* * *

...to be continued.


	7. Chapter 7

VSM - Vital Signs Monitor

PolyHeme - artificial blood

A/N: this chapter refers to events in Boomercat's story "Perceptions". You won't have to read it to follow the chapter, but it's a good story and well worth the read.

* * *

"What happened to your arm?" Alan demanded as Virgil struggled to untie a knot using only one hand.

"It's broken." Virgil grunted. "It'll heal."

"Scott's still unconscious."

"Yeah."

"Well shouldn't you shift the VSM to him?"

Virgil hesitated, then shook his head.

"I can't hook it up again one-handed anyway. Best to leave it where it is."

"Well I could help. I'm awake now, and I feel fine."

"No, you're staying right where you are. You've lost a lot of blood."

"I have? Funny, I feel fine."

"Yeah well... ow, that hurts!"

Alan winced in sympathy as he saw that Virgil had torn a fingernail trying to undo the rope. Yet his brother barely paused before he was trying again.

"That's going to catch on everything." Alan observed.

"Tell me about it." Virgil grumbled.

"Look, I might be a bit weak, but I can help." Alan tried again. "I'll tell you if I get dizzy."

"No." Virgil told him flatly. "You're better staying put. Besides, at this rate I'm not going to be able to get you free anyway."

"You could cut the rope."

"With what?"

"Um..." Alan floundered.

"Exactly."

Alan frowned.

"No, there must be something. Wait, Scott keeps a fire axe in the hold."

Virgil paused.

"Oh now there's an idea." he said caustically. "You just lie still while I swing at you and hope I don't hit you."

"You're ambidextrous, aren't you?"

"Yes, but my strong arm's my left, which is all bound up right now. Besides, axes really aren't made to be used as scissors. Any other ideas? Maybe one that one that won't end up with more bloodshed?"

"You could use your penknife." Alan offered weakly.

That suggestion did not even merit a look.

"Do you have any idea how long it would take to cut through one of Brains' strengthened ropes with a penknife?" Virgil asked, finally unravelling the knot that had caused so much trouble. "We'd all die of old age first. No, Alan! Stay right where you are."

"But you need help." Alan argued, frustrated, trying to free himself from the pile of shirts wrapped around him.

"Not from you." Virgil insisted, leaning over him and looking him directly in the eye. "Alan, listen to me. _Listen_ to me. I had to give you some davopax, you need to stay still."

Alan stared at him, feeling suddenly like a deer caught in the glare of oncoming headlights.

"Davopax?"

"I had to. You were going into shock, and we had to move you."

"What... where'm I hurt?"

Alan felt dizzy again, but this time with fear. If they had used davopax on him, he might have lost a leg and not know it yet. It could be anything at all.

"When the ship rolled, you fell onto a box of tools and got gouged." Virgil told him, nodding to Alan's stomach. "It's a bad cut. About a hand-span wide, but not too deep. We bound it up and managed to block most of the blood loss, but we need to get you to a hospital. That's why the VSM's on you and not Scott. Once we get back to Two, I'll hook him up on another."

"Back to Two? But Virgil, with your arm broken you can't fly us out of here!"

"Let me worry about that."

"Where's Gordon? What's he doing? He's not hurt too, is he?"

"Calm down." Virgil instructed, going back to his task. "Adrenaline makes the davopax fade quicker, and you're not getting a second dose. Gordon's fine. He's gone across to Two to get the stretcher covers so we can move you two."

"So he can fly us out, then." Alan said, mainly to himself.

That was a relief. If he was badly hurt - and he now had no doubt that he actually was - then he wanted to get out of here as soon as possible. He did not want to still be here when the drug wore off.

* * *

"Jeremiah Callenson."

"Dr Callenson, hi it's John Tracy here."

"John Tracy! Well, it's been a few months, son. How are you?"

John was not in the mood for small talk and ignored the opening. It was not as if he could answer that question honestly right now, anyway.

"Dr Callenson, the last time I spoke to you, you said if I ever wanted to tell you what was really going on at home I should call you."

The doctor's humour dropped away.

"Son, do you want me to call for the police? Are you safe? Has he hurt you?"

John rolled his eyes at the blank screen.

"Scott isn't beating up on any of us, doctor, we've told you that. But I _do_ want to tell you what's going on. I'm perfectly safe, but I need you to come out to the island. Scott and Alan've gotten hurt and we need your help, but I swear this time we'll tell you the full truth. Please, will you come?"

"No more deceptions?"

"No more deceptions. I swear."

"And you'll be there to meet me yourself?"

"Ah, that I can't do right now but you'll understand when you get there. Tintin will meet you on the runway."

"John, why don't I come to wherever you are?"

"I'm a bit further away at the moment. Look, doc, Scott and Alan really do need you to be at the island. Please just go there. When you're in the air, call out to me on the radio and I'll start to explain."

"What frequency?"

John smiled mirthlessly.

"It doesn't matter. Trust me, I'll pick you up. Communications are my specialty."

"I thought your specialty was astronomy?"

"That's my hobby. Please. The quicker you come, the better."

"Alright, alright, I'm coming. But I expect a full explanation."

"You'll get it, sir. I promise."

* * *

Gordon crawled into the hatch and collapsed on the floor gratefully. He had honestly not been sure if he would make it back, and now he only felt like going to sleep for a very long time. It was not an option, of course, but for now he could not bring himself to move.

The next thing he knew, there was a steadying hand on his shoulder. It went away, and then a piece of hard plastic was fumbled awkwardly over his face, gouging into his cheek a little. Drawing one hand up painfully, he adjusted the purifier mask and concentrated on his breathing, trying to ignore the pain from his back. Virgil, meanwhile, was disconnecting the guide line from Gordon's harness and securing it to something in One's cockpit. It could not be easy, one-handed, but for now Gordon had other demands on his attention.

After what felt like hours, but was probably only minutes, Virgil was back with him.

"Wind's gotten stronger, has it?" he asked almost jokingly.

Gordon gulped, nodding. Virgil leaned closer, whispering now.

"I'm trying to keep Alan from knowing you're hurt. He's getting edgy."

Gordon screwed his eyes up tight, wanting to scream in frustration. He was in pain, here! But then he exhaled slowly and reminded himself that Alan's condition was more serious.

"It's hellish out there." he answered as normally as he could manage. "We're going to have to do the stretchers one at a time, even with the guides."

"Right. I'll put these covers on. We'll start with Alan, then come back for Scott."

As he spoke, he pressed something into Gordon's hand, then turned away. Gordon looked at the object - it was a needle, pre-charged with simazopan. Not as strong as davopax, but still not exactly the sort of analgesic you could buy at your corner pharmacy. It would reduce the pain, and it was also a muscle relaxant, but it would leave him physically weakened and drowsy. He could not be trusted to do anything without dozing off if he took it. On the other hand, was he going to be any use at all if he did not? Virgil had left the choice up to him.

He stared at the needle. When he had been learning to walk again, after the accident, he had practically lived on analgesics. He rarely took anything stronger than an asprin these days, preferring to tough out the pain. Yet these were not normal circumstances. Gritting his teeth, he stretched his other arm out in front of himself and rolled back the sleeve. It was going to be awkward, given the angle and the fact that he was lying on his stomach, but he had to do it. And then Virgil was back.

"You want a hand?" he asked, taking the needle and checking it.

"Just half." Gordon whispered, then added more loudly. "I'm getting my breath back now."

"That's good." Virgil agreed blandly.

The needle stung a little as it went in, and Gordon bit his lip. Virgil was usually the most gentle of his brothers, but he was obviously rattled today. For a second there was an icy coldness that took over from the sting, and then it dispersed. Virgil showed him the needle was still half-filled, then put it away in the medkit. By the time he turned back, Gordon was able to carefully move onto hands and knees. The pain was still there, but he could handle it. They had a job to do, and he was going to help do it.

"Ready?" Virgil asked, holding out a hand to help him up.

"On three." Gordon suggested, sitting back on his heels.

"Right. One, two, _three_."

* * *

"Jeremiah Callenson calling John Tracy. Come in John Tracy. God this is stupid. John Tracy, can you...?"

"Reading you loud and clear, doc."

"That was fast."

"Yeah, well there's a reason for that. It's part of what I do, you see. Pick up radio calls."

"Don't you spend all of your time writing astronomy texts?"

"That's what we tell people, yes, but it's not quite true. I have another job. We all do. Okay, I've secured the frequency now so we can't be overheard. Right. Have you set the autopilot yet?"

"Not yet."

"Then do that - I don't want you missing the island or crashing because I'm talking to you."

"Alright, alright, hold on... right... okay, go ahead. The autopilot's on."

"Good. Doctor Callenson, this is going to be a bit of a shock, but our home - Tracy Island - is actually the base of operations for International Rescue."

There was a pause.

"John, I always thought Gordon was the joker of the family."

"This is no joke, sir. Right now I'm sitting up in Thunderbird Five, monitoring distress calls from around the world. From orbit. That's why I'm hardly ever home. When I _am_ home, it's because Alan's up here. That's why you never get to see all five of us at once."

"John..."

"Scott and Virgil go on more rescues than the rest of us, that's why they get hurt most often. Scott's our field commander, though, so he co-ordinates and leaves Virgil to do a lot of the frontline work. It makes him sick when he doesn't get an order out quick enough to stop one of us getting hurt, he blames himself. And you accusing him hasn't helped any, but we all know it isn't true. He does his best.

"Think about it, doc. Every time one of us has been hurt, it's coincided with a rescue. I know how furious you've been with us for moving victims, like when Gordon broke his ribs last year and we told you he'd fallen on Satellite Hill, and you told us we shouldn't've moved him back to the house. But we had no choice. He got hurt in a cave-in just west of Johannesburg when there was a gas pocket explosion. The time Virgil had that concussion and the burns on his hands. I can't even remember what excuse we gave for that one, but what actually happened was some Navy admiral took a potshot at Thunderbird Two and Virgil nearly crashed trying to land her.

"International Rescue is a family operation. It always has been. There are just the five of us. Tintin and Brains designed and built the equipment, with Virgil's help and dad's money. It was dad's idea from the start. He's been planning it pretty much since mom died. That's why we all live at home and... hold on, I've got a transmission coming through. I'll leave your speaker on, so you can hear."

John flipped a switch.

"Go ahead Virgil."

"John, Gordon's just got _back_." Virgil paused meaningfully and John's eyes widened.

Gordon was having back trouble? This was not a good time. But who was Virgil concealing it from?

"We're about to take Alan over." Virgil continued. "When we've got him set up in Thunderbird Two, we'll come back for Scott. Tell Brains we're going to have to abandon One for now and come back for her later. We can't even secure her at the moment other than close the hatch but the weather out here's so atrocious I don't think anyone'll be coming near. We'll need him and Tintin to come out to get her right again asap, or at least find some way of towing her home. How's the weather picture looking?"

"Not good." John admitted. "It's probably hit its peak, but it's moving very slowly. You're looking at an hour or more before it begins to clear."

"Well that's no good. We have to get out of here before then. John, can you get dad to organise a cover for Callenson for us? We should probably divert, but we may need next-of-kin permission and that's easier to do as the Tracys."

"We're organising Callenson's assistance now." John nodded. "Don't worry about that - you just get home asap."

"F-A-B. I'll call in once we're all aboard Two. Thunderbird One out."

John shut down the channel, then returned to the first conversation.

"Doc? Are you still there?"

There was a pause.

"John?'

"Yes, doc?"

"If this was all planned since you were kids, why didn't one of you study medicine?"

John laughed.

"Good question - I don't know. I think we just ran out of brothers."

* * *

Scott opened his eyes, but the view was blurry. He blinked a couple of times, but nothing came into focus so he closed them again. His leg was throbbing painfully, and so was his head. An itch developed above his right eyebrow where a lock of hair from his fringe was dangling down and he tried to shake his head to move it away. The attempt at movement did not work - the collar and backboard held him immobile. Restraints kept his arms pinned too. Groaning, he tried to blow the hair out of the way, but it only made the itch worse.

"Virgil!" he croaked. "Gordon? Alan? Is anyone there?"

There was no response. He could still hear the storm, but it was muffled. It was getting colder now too, and he shivered. Was it actually getting colder, or was he suffering from shock?

"Virgil?" he called again, trying to raise his voice above the din of the storm.

It hurt. His chest hurt when he breathed in and seemed to sap his strength and his voice. But his brothers would not have abandoned him.

"Vir...argh!"

His attempts to talk had gotten too painful, and now he felt like he had a dagger sticking into his throat. It hurt even just breathing in and out. Where was everyone?

* * *

Virgil gave the med-unit a hard glare, daring it to bleep again. He had been away from Scott for far too long - first with the struggle to get Alan across to Thunderbird Two, then shifting him from the stretcher to the sickbay diagnostic bed. The readouts were truly not much more extensive than what the portable VSM units provided, but were far more precise. Besides, it meant they could hook him up to a steady, adjustable oxygen supply. And begin the blood transfusion.

For victims in rescues, they carried bags of PolyHeme, but for themselves they had three pints each of their own whole blood. PolyHeme was the trauma-specialist's best friend in cases of heavy blood loss, coming into common use at the end of the first decade of the twenty-first century and refined over the past five decades into a product that saved millions of lives every year all round the world, but nothing was better than whole blood.

He jumped as the machine bleeped again, and once more examined the setup. There were no airbubbles in the bag or tube - the shunt ensured that. Yet the supply was being blocked somehow. How? What had he done wrong? The line was not twisted or buckled at all that he could see. It was feeding straight into the canula which he had inserted into Alan's arm. He knew he had done that right - he had done it a hundred times on rescues, and Alan was at least fit and healthy with strong veins that he did not have to go searching for. He hated doing that.

"Go and get Scott." Alan huffed at him through the mask.

"Not until I get this sorted out." he grumbled.

"It'll be fine. Just go."

Virgil shook his head in frustration. He hated leaving Scott alone, but he would not risk Alan bleeding to death while he was out of the room. Gordon had collapsed in the pod and would not be any further help for now, though Virgil had lied to Alan telling him that Gordon was heading up to the cockpit. Alan did not need to know how dire the situation really was. Virgil wished he did not know, himself. Or rather, he wished he were not the one having to deal with it. Crisis management was Scott's specialty, Virgil just followed orders. As he watched, the scanner registered another pause, and he grit his teeth.

"Right, we'll start over."

"What are you trying to do - turn me into a pincushion? It's fine!"

"No, there's something wrong."

He stopped the flow, disconnected the tube, then carefully removed the canula and examined it. Peering at it closely, he saw the problem. Torn between relief that it was as simple as a crushed needletip and anxiety over how long this was taking, he said nothing as he put it in the medical waste container and stripped a fresh shunt out of its wrapping - none of which was easy to do with one arm splinted and throbbing maddeningly, but he made no comment. A minute later, he watched the screen again and was pleased to see the fluctuations had disappeared from the readout.

"Better. Okay, will you be okay for a while?"

"I'm fine. Go! The sooner you're back, the sooner we can get to a doctor."

Virgil nodded. The sooner that happened, the happier he would be. Out of Alan's sight, down the corridor, he paused to lean against a wall. His arm was hurting so much it almost hurt to breathe. He had had to loosen the inflatable cast so that he had more mobility with his hand for guiding the stretcher and settling Alan. It was not a clever thing to do but what choice did he have? None at all. Staring out into the rain again, he dreaded making the trip again, yet knew he had to.

"Never give up." he reminded himself.

His brothers were counting on him. He had to get them out of here, and he would. God help him, they were all going home or none of them were.

* * *

Gordon lay face-down on the floor where he had fallen, fighting the urge to curl up. That would help for a second, but then it would make everything worse. He needed to sleep. He needed to access a stronger muscle relaxant, and to soak in a hot bath, and to get out of these cold damp clothes. But he could do none of that. Right now all he could do was lie here.

About five minutes earlier he had heard Virgil heading back over to Thunderbird One. He had expected the pilot to look for him and make sure he was alright and was more than a little peeved when it did not happen, but he knew that Scott took priority right now. A weak chuckle burbled up in his throat as he considered their situation. Anyone else caught in this sort of crisis these days would call for International Rescue. What a pity they could not do the same. The momentary lapse into humour gave him a little more determination and he forced himself up again.

"Come on." he grunted to himself. "On your feet. Just like when you were learning to walk again. Push the pain behind you and _move_."

Drawing on strength he thought he had already exhausted, he crawled along the corridor to the passenger assembly area. It was where they put victims of a mission until they could drop them off, unless they needed the sickbay. He should probably be in the sickbay, to be honest, but Alan and Scott would be there and they did not need any further worries. Groaning, he pulled himself up into a chair. He would have preferred a bed, but he would have to make do. Tightening the restraints until they held his weight securely against the back of the chair, he finally let himself slump. Everything was up to Virgil now. He just hoped his brother could handle it alone.


	8. Chapter 8

Disclaimer: I do not own Thunderbirds, I make no profit from this.

* * *

"Tracy Excelsior to Thunderbird Five, come in please."

"Reading you, Excelsior. What's going on, Tintin?"

"I'm flying Brains and Doctor Callenson out to Thunderbird Two." she responded to his surprise.

"Tintin, Virgil and Gordon are going to bring them home. I'm just waiting for confirmation hey're all aboard."

"Yes I know, but we could meet them part way. The injuries sound so severe, John."

"I'm sure Virgil will divert if he thinks it's necessary. Besides, we don't know if there's anywhere there to land the Excelsior."

"Well you can ask Virgil that when he calls in."

She sounded remarkably stubborn.

"If nothing e-else, John." Brains took over. "I'll need to, ah, examine Thunderbird One and assess the, ah, damage to her systems. I can always parachute down if, ah, necessary."

"Alright, alright, I'll pass it on. But be careful - the Excelsior will be hard to handle in this weather."

"Understood. Excelsior out."

* * *

Virgil staggered back into Thunderbird One, feeling numb with cold and drenched to the bone. The good news was that he could no longer feel his arm. The bad news was that he could no longer feel his arm...

Shaking his head at his own near-delusional thoughts, he managed to straighten and move over to the remaining stretcher. He had put the opaque plastic covers on beforehand, so now he just had to guide it out of here, yet he noticed now that it was rocking slightly. Were the antigrav motors giving way? No - Scott was moving about. Unzipping the top of the cover, he found his brother in the throes of a full-blown panic attack and threatening to pull free of the restraints.

"Hey! Scott! Calm down, Scott, it's okay. Scott, listen to me. _Listen_ to me. Scott? For god's sake, Scott, don't make me have to hit you!"

Scott stared up past him with wild eyes, unable to turn his head because of the brace.

"Virgil?"

Virgil leaned further over the stretcher.

"Yeah, I'm here. Calm down."

"I... I can't move..."

"We've got you strapped down, remember?"

"I can't... can't see you... can't see..."

Virgil stared down at him, realising that Scott had yet to focus on him.

"I'm here. I'm right here." he repeated, trying to think of something comforting to say and coming up blank.

What would cause blindness? Scott had not been blind before, had he? Virgil could not remember checking his brother's eyes other than looking to make sure they were dilating evenly, and then Scott had mainly kept them closed while he had been vomiting. But would Scott have not said something if there had been a problem earlier? Surely he would. He grit his teeth in frustration: they _really_ did not need another problem to deal with right now. Yet even as he watched, Scott's eyes seemed to focus slowly.

"I couldn't see anything, it was all blurry." he said shakily. "What's happening?"

"You can see me now?" Virgil checked urgently.

"Yeah. My eyes won't focus properly, but I can see you. Where've you been? I was calling."

"I'm sorry. We had to evacuate Alan first. Gordon's... Gordon's staying with him now, and I've come back for you."

Now Scott's eyes focused sharply and so did his voice.

"Alan? What's happened?"

"He's cut himself." Virgil said vaguely. "How are you feeling?"

"Virgil - what's happened to Alan?"

"Look you're the victim here. Trust us to get you out of here."

"He's my brother."

"Mine too. And so are you. And I'm worried about both of you." Virgil snapped back, his patience worn thin.

Scott blinked at him, and Virgil almost expected him to apologise, but then Scott's eyes narrowed.

"What happened to your arm?"

He considered downplaying it, but then decided that Scott would get the truth from him one way or another and it might as well be now.

"It's broken."

"Broken." Scott repeated flatly.

"Yes. It's hurting like hell, if you must know."

Scott opened his mouth to make a comment then closed it again, going slightly grey.

"Scott?"

The invalid swallowed convulsively, his eyes now closed.

"'m okay." he mumbled. "Just a bit... nauseous. Comes and goes. V... I trust you. Jus'get me home?"

Virgil shivered, disturbed by the abrupt change in tone. He was not used to being wholly responsible like this. Not at all.

"Yeah, Scott." he pledged. "I'll get you home. I promise."

* * *

Alan stared at the ceiling, feeling a twinge from his stomach. It was happening more frequently now - not really hurting yet, but heading that way. Where were Virgil and Gordon? What was taking them so long? This whole situation was absolutely ridiculous.

Tilting his head back he could just make out the monitor above his bed, and the information he saw there was not encouraging. His blood pressure and blood oxygen levels were way down, and his temperature was dropping in spite of the thermal blanket Virgil had awkwardly wrapped around him. He needed medical care, dammit, why were they wasting time? His hands clenched into fists in frustration, then he yelped as the tension in his muscles made the shunt twist in his arm.

"Ow, ow, ow!" he hissed, using his other hand to gently rub the area and reduce the sting.

As he did so, though, a thought occurred to him, and he lifted his free arm up above him. He was still wearing his watch, which meant he could get some news on what was going on. That should keep him occupied until Virgil and Gordon got back.

"Alan to Thunderbird Five. Alan calling Thunderbird Five, come in please."

"Alan. How are you?"

"Bored." he admitted. "What's happening?"

John frowned at him.

"You don't know?"

"I know Gordon and Virgil've gone back for Scott, but they seem to've been gone for ages."

"Well it's been twenty-two minutes since Virgil last called in," John told him, "and that was before they shifted you, so it probably hasn't been as long as it feels."

"Huh. Probably."

"How are you feeling?"

"Strange. Disconnected. It's the drugs, I guess."

"Yes." John paused. "Virgil said he'd used davopax. How bad is it?"

"I haven't got a clue. They won't even let me sit up, and it feels like half my body's covered in bandages."

"Well do as you're told and stay still."

"Yeah, that's what I thought."

They were both silent for a moment, trying not to think about how badly he might be hurt but unable to think of anything to say next.

"When Virgil gets back, can you get him to call me?" John asked finally. "Tintin's on her way out in the Excelsior, and they'll need to work out a rendezvous point."

"Virgil's not going to be flying us anywhere." Alan said mildly. "It'll be Gordon, for sure."

"Why's that?"

Alan rolled his eyes.

"Let me guess - he hasn't told you he's broken his arm?"

John seemed to go pale, although with his complexion and the fact that he spent most of his life out of the sun it was hard to be sure.

"He's done what?"

"Yeah, we're a regular bunch of walking wounded here." Alan sighed wryly. "Thank god Gordo's fine, or we'd be in real trouble."

John gave him an absent smile.

"Uh yeah. Oh, Al I've got to go - transmission coming in. Are you okay for me to sign off?"

"Yeah, I'm fine. Go on. They'll be back soon."

"Right. Five out."

* * *

John filled his lungs, held his breath for a moment, then let it out slowly. It did not help. He was still furious. And frightened. Bad enough that Scott was hurt, but then Alan had been seriously wounded somehow. And then Gordon's back had started playing up, and god only knew how bad _that_ was, but Virgil would not have mentioned it unless it was affecting them. And now to find out that Virgil had broken his arm... What was going on down there? The situation was far worse than any of the individual reports had let on.

Pacing across to the map display, he looked at the figures with an expert eye. He was tracking the Excelsior on Brains' watch signal and the computer did the calculations for him, displaying in bright green the bad news - it would take almost two hours for the little jet to reach the danger zone, and that was at best speed. Given the fact that they were flying into a storm, it would be more like three. Thunderbird Two could cover that same area in about quarter of an hour in good weather, and in less than sixty minutes under the current conditions, but she needed a pilot.

His gaze flickered back to the communications board. Was it time to call for help? He had no doubt he could call for assistance from any of the world military bodies and expect immediate action, given all that International Rescue had done over the years, but what good would it do? They would most likely say they could not get there in this weather, and it would be true. International Rescue was the only organisation with the equipment to deal with this. Ironic, really.

What made it worse was the knowledge that even if he were at home right now there would still be nothing he could do. The Excelsior was the fastest of the ships remaining at base, other than Thunderbird Three which was not designed for sustained atmospheric travel. Moreover, if he followed that theory he would not have been at home at all but lying on a medbay bed in Alan's place.

"Come on, Tintin." he begged the little brown dot on the screen. "Make that bird fly like Scott would. You've got to get there fast."

* * *

Jeremiah looked up from the papers he had been given, shaking his head in amazement.

"This is incredible. All of it!"

Brains looked at him evenly.

"Th-thank you. But you do understand - you mustn't, ah, tell anyone what we've shown you."

"Absolutely."

"Not even your daughter." Tintin called over her shoulder. "Not without Mr Tracy's permission."

Jeremiah hesitated. He had not considered that.

"Alright." he said slowly. "Alright, I won't say anything. I swear. Now, what's the situation out here?"

Brains shook his head.

"We're not entirely, ah, sure." he frowned, looking frustrated. "Thunderbird One c-crashed for no good, ah, reason. I d-don't know _why_. She's b-built for lightning s-strikes, and she's been struck, ah, before, and..."

"Oh, Brains, we've been over this a hundred times." Tintin interrupted him. "We don't _know_ what happened, and we _can't_ know until we examine her. The important thing for Doctor Callenson to know is that she crashed and Scott was injured. And then something went wrong and Alan was injured too..."

Jeremiah saw tears well in her eyes, but then she brushed them away, still focused on the instrument panel before her.

"...and that's why we need to get out there. We don't have many details I'm sorry, doctor. Virgil said Alan had cut himself and lost a lot of blood, but they carry bags of their own whole blood as well as PolyHeme, so they can handle that." She sounded as though she was trying to convince herself. "And Scott may have broken his leg, and might have a concussion. John has promised he'll contact us just as soon as they're all aboard Thunderbird Two, so we can get some more details then."

"He should be able to transmit the VSM data to us at that point." Brains mused. "I'll see if I can, ah, modify one of the screens to display it."

He got up and disappeared into the back of the plane, and Jeremiah looked to Tintin.

"VSM?" he asked.

"Vital Signs Monitor." she explained. "They read off blood pressure, blood oxygen levels, temperature, pulse rate, perspiration and adrenaline levels, and respiration. The boys use them to monitor victims who have been hurt but can't say how badly - people who are unconscious, or perhaps have internal injuries - and they use the information to assess priorities."

She bit her lip.

"I don't think they've ever had to use them on each other before, though."


	9. Chapter 9

Disclaimer: I do not own Thunderbirds, I make no profit from this.

VSM - Vital Signs Monitor

* * *

"About time you got back." Alan sniffed as Virgil manoeuvred the stretcher through the doorway. "It feels like you've been gone forever."

"Well I'm sorry there wasn't anything here to keep you entertained." Virgil puffed, sliding Scott's stretcher into place and grabbing for the bio-bed's sensors.

His brother's response, though barely even tinged with sarcasm, made him feel guilty and Alan was silent as the cover was pulled off the other stretcher.

"He's still out?" he asked quietly when there was no sign of consciousness from his eldest brother.

Virgil shook his head, clearly concerned.

"He drifts in and out. I don't like it. Ah, now lets see..."

After that he said nothing further, his back to Alan and his one good hand working hard as he strapped Scott into place and attached what looked to be an oxygen mask and saline drip. Alan tried to wait patiently, but he was tired and beginning to feel nauseous.

"So? Is he okay?"

Virgil turned away.

"He's fine. Now I've got to go and help Gordon. I'll put the intercom on so you can call if you need anything. Give us a shout if he wakes up and needs anything."

"Virgil..." Alan began to protest, but the pilot was already gone.

Alan frowned and looked across the aisle at where Scott lay. The angle prevented him from seeing the readout, but Virgil's reaction had been enough - there was something very wrong.

* * *

Virgil strode down the hallway, stumbling a little with fatigue but determined to keep moving. Scott's blood oxygen levels were well down. What was causing it he could not be sure, but he did know that the consequences of delayed medical attention could be serious. Very serious. He should not leave him unattended at all, but there was no help for that right now.

Moving into the passenger hold he opened his mouth to demand Gordon moved to the sickbay to watch the invalids, but then closed it again when he saw his brother. Gordon was asleep but his face was drawn with pain and he was hunched over even with the seatbelt in place. Clucking his tongue in exasperation, Virgil grabbed for the nearest medkit and pulled out another shot of simazopan. One and a half shots was normally a little high for a safe dose, but Gordon had a reasonably high tolerance for analgesics after his accident and would cope. Disturbingly, his brother did not rouse as the drug was administered. Putting the kit away again, he turned on his heel and headed back towards the cockpit. It really was all up to him now.

"You'll help me, though." he murmured to his ship. "Right, baby?"

There was no answer but the low level humming of the atomic motor, but he took that for assent. Reaching the cockpit finally, he paused to look out the window at Thunderbird One. She was looking a very sorry sight right now, and he again worried that they were having to leave her unsecured. If only the others had not been injured, he might have dropped the pod and tried to carry her home, but it was just impractical with the way things were.

Sighing, he put his hands on the controls, then hesitated. Grimacing, he pulled open a small storage compartment and withdrew a tab of chewable asprin. It would not do much for the fiery pain emanating from his left arm, but it might just do enough to keep him from blacking out.

At second thought, he decided to take two. Two was his number after all, right? He rubbed at his eyes - he was definitely not thinking straight right now.

Returning his hands to the controls, he went through the minimum of the pre-flight checks then began warming the engines. While that was happening, he had an idea. Pulling off his sash, he used it to bind his left hand tightly to the yoke. That way it would not slip if the pain got too bad to hold on. Finally he charged the thrusters, and with one final prayer for luck, he lifted off into the turbulent air.

* * *

"Thunderbird Two to Thunderbird Five."

"Virgil, you look as pale as a sheet."

"Well gee thanks, Johnny." Virgil responded. "That's just what I needed to hear right now."

John scowled at him.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?"

"I'm flying us out of here."

"I can see that. Alan told me you'd broken your arm."

"Yeah. Hurts too."

"Virgil, you should be lying down in the sickbay!"

"Don't be ridiculous." Virgil growled back. "Who would fly us home, then? You?"

John relented a little.

"Gordon's back is that bad?"

"He got twisted up in the wind out there when we were bringing Alan across." Virgil told him. "If it wasn't bad before, it got pretty much unbearable then. He's out cold."

"Alan doesn't know that, does he?"

"No. Gordy's in the passenger hold. Alan thinks he's flying. I don't know what he thinks I'm doing, and to be honest I don't care. He's still losing blood about as fast as we can pump it into him, and Scott's..."

He broke off abruptly, clenching his teeth, and John stared at him.

"Scott's deteriorating?"

He saw Virgil pause, then nod reluctantly.

"Something's not right. Some internal injury, it must be. I don't know where or what. Alan's more critical, but Scotty's so damned _quiet_..."

John nodded soberly. It was one of the glaring danger signs with rescue victims - a noisy victim was usually relatively stable, even if they were bleeding everywhere, but a quiet one needed help fast.

"Alright, then lets talk about action." he said firmly. "You're wanting to divert?"

Virgil gave a dry laugh that was borderline hysterical.

"Johnny, I don't know _what_ I want. If we divert there's no-one to watch the 'bird, but if we don't I just don't think I can fly all the way home. This turbulence is hell on my arm: I'm turning a straight break into a compound fracture with every bump. I don't think I'm even thinking straight, let alone flying straight. I'm gonna have to set her down soon, John, but I can't figure out where."

"Alright, well just let me handle that for you. In the meantime, can you transmit the VSM data to me?"

"To you?" Virgil checked, his expression blank.

"Yeah. Brains wants it."

"Uh, no I... I don't have them hooked up right for that. I couldn't take the time..."

"Alright, forget it." John told him, looking to his map. "Okay. Have you got the local coord map up on the display?"

"No, it's still set to the last danger zone. It'll take a second to re... ugh!"

John looked up sharply and saw Virgil shifting almost out of shot, clutching at his left arm, his complexion even paler.

"Virgil!"

Virgil gulped, panting.

"'m okay." he mumbled. "I'm okay. I'm okay." He took a deep breath, let it out slowly, then repeated. "I'm okay."

"Yeah, you're okay." John lied. "Can you set the map?"

"Give me a minute."

"Whatever you need."

Virgil straightened with an effort, and then made the necessary adjustments on the console.

"Okay. It's up."

"Right. Your landing site is reference AF-3 mark 9. Can you see it?"

"John, that's in the middle of nowhere!"

"Yeah, I know, but it's the middle of nowhere with a runway." John told him.

"I don't need a runway."

"No, but Tintin does. She's in the Excelsior, on her way out to meet you, and she's bringing help."

"Help?"

"Callenson."

Virgil nodded, then jerked in alarm.

"Callenson?"

"Dad's given the go-ahead - he knows everything. He can make an assessment and figure out what needs to be done."

"But..."

"And then either Tintin or Brains can fly Two home." John continued firmly. "Or to the nearest hospital. They can manage that much."

It was an indication of how badly Virgil was injured that he did not even flinch at the idea of the engineers flying his craft.

"What's her ETA?" he asked simply.

"Twenty minutes. You have more ground to cover than her..."

"But we'll be fine." Virgil interrupted, a little colour returning to his face now that someone had taken charge of the situation. "We're out of the centre of the storm, now. We'll make it. John - thanks."

"You're welcome. Do you want me to stay on the line?"

"Can you? I mean, don't you have to call in to base?"

John shook his head.

"Not right now. And I think you could do with the company."

"Yeah. That'd be good."

* * *

Tintin had just shut the engines off when there was a roaring sound outside. Callenson jumped, but she and Brains just headed straight for the hatch. Heedless of the rain, she dashed towards where Thunderbird Two was landing two hundred metres away. It came down with a thump making the ground shake a little but she barely noticed that, intent on getting to Alan. Reaching the ship first she entered her personal entry code into the nearest control panel. Immediately the door unsealed and she hurried inside but then realised she needed the doctor. Frustrated, she paused and looked back. Callenson had overtaken Brains now, soon joining her, and she grabbed his hand.

"This way." she said shortly.

She supposed that it would seem like a maze to anyone else, but the corridors were familiar to her and she noted little things - streaks of mud and water on the usually pristine floor, a scrape on the wall where a stretcher had passed by. It seemed to take forever to reach the sickbay, though she knew it was deliberately close to the entrance hatch for convenience on rescues. When she finally got there, she almost fell over the threshold, letting go of Callenson's hand and diving forward to where she saw Alan lying.

"Alan!"

He was waxy pale and his eyes were closed, but now he opened them.

"Tintin? Are we home already? How... whoa! What's the doc doing here?"

"I've been let in on the family secret." Callenson assured him. "Now lets have a look at you."

Tintin unlatched the restraints - the clasps one of Brains' inventions and unfamiliar to the doctor - then tried to stand out of the way. The blankets were pulled back and she whimpered seeing the stain in the bandages. Alan held out his hand to her and pulled her closer.

"How bad is it, doc?" he asked, his hand holding hers tightly.

"Let me know if I hurt you." Callenson avoided answering for now.

Alan's eyes closed.

"Little chance of that. The davopax's still working pretty good."

Callenson looked up sharply.

"You've been given davopax?"

Alan's eyes reopened.

"Yeah. Why? Is that bad?"

"No. No, in fact it's exactly what I would've done."

Tintin relaxed and felt Alan do the same.

"Right. So now we just need to sew me up and get me outta here, right?"

Callenson was looking under the bandages, then set them back in place.

"Yes, that's about right. But I think we'll get you to a hospital for that - davopax or no, it'll be better for you to be under anaesthetic."

"No argument there, doc." Alan nodded, and Tintin gave him a brave smile but he was not looking at her. "But I think you've spent enough time on me. Can you have a look at Scott and figure out why he keeps blacking out on us?"

Tintin looked across the room and bit her lip as she realised she had walked straight past the unconscious pilot. Callenson moved over there now, and Tintin pulled the blankets back up over Alan.

"Just hold still, okay?" she whispered to him.

"I'm okay, honey." he whispered back. "Really."

She sniffed and wiped at her eyes.

"Oh you." she mock-scolded. "Now you've got me weeping."

"Don't cry, Tintin. I'm going to be fine."

She gulped and nodded.

"Yes you are. Now try to get some sleep. I'm going to find out what's going on."

"Good idea. Come back and tell me when you know?"

"F-A-B."

* * *

Virgil hissed as Brains gently unwound the sash.

"S-sorry."

"No, it's - oh! - it's okay, it's just - god that _hurts_ - it's just painful." Virgil gasped.

It loosened enough that it stopped supporting Virgil's arm and his hand dropped down onto the armrest. The pilot yelped and drew it in against his chest. His eyes closed, and Brains peered at him worriedly.

"Virgil? Are you alright? Do you think you might, ah, faint? I could..."

"Shh." Virgil interrupted desperately, trying to catch his breath.

Brains waited, and after a moment Virgil's eyes opened again.

"Give me a shot of pseudotropocaine and immobilise it."

"I'd feel more comfortable, ah, Virgil if you would go down to the, ah, sickbay..."

"No. Alan and Scott... they don't need to know. Not yet. Not til we're home, or wherever we're going. The PTC'll be enough for now."

"Virgil, I know you don't want to worry them," John said from the communication screen, "but Alan already knows your arm is broken. You'd be better lying down."

"I'm fine."

"No you're not. And PTC isn't strong enough to stop you passing out with what you've done to your arm. I can see that from here."

"I'm managing on asprin right now." Virgil said through gritted teeth. "I haven't passed out yet."

The two brothers glared at each other for a long moment: John determined and Virgil defiant. John capitulated first, throwing up his hands in frustration.

"For god's sake Virge, you've got to help me out here - I can't read you like Scott does. You have to _tell_ me what's wrong."

Virgil shook his head.

"Nothing. It's nothing. I just don't want to worry them any more than they already are."

Brains still suspected there was something more but all of the Tracy boys were stubborn in their own way, and if Virgil had decided not to answer it would take more than him and John to change his mind.

"L-let me just go and get the PT, ah, C. I'll be back shortly."

He headed out into the corridor, then activated his watch.

"Brains to J-john."

There was a pause before he got a response, probably as John made an excuse to Virgil.

"Go ahead, Brains."

"I think we had better plan a, ah, route, to the nearest medical, ah, facility. And a suitable, um, story."

John nodded soberly.

"I'll work out a flight plan and story for you. Are you going to be able to fly them out of there?"

"I'll have to, ah, John. Unless Gordon can. I'll check on him after I f-finish with Virgil."

"Okay, let me know. Right now I'd better get back on to Virgil and make sure he doesn't try anything stupid while you're away."

"Is he, ah, likely to?"

"I just don't know. There's something bothering him, but... well I guess it'll have to wait. Call me if you need me, Brains. Thunderbird Five out."

Brains nodded to himself. They would all do what they had to do. It was the way it had always been.

* * *

Gordon woke to a touch on his arm. Pulling away, he blinked blearily around himself. Brains was standing over him and Gordon stared at him for a moment, then remembered what had happened.

"Brains! God, did Virgil get us home? How long've I been out??"

"Easy, ah, G-gordon." Brains tried to reassure him. "How are you, ah, feeling?"

"Stiff, but the pain's not too bad." Gordon said honestly. "Where's Virgil?"

"In the c-...ah, cockpit."

"How's his arm?"

"Not, ah, not good. He fl-flew out of the, um, storm, but made it much, ah, worse."

"Great. Wait. We're not home?"

"No. Tintin flew out here with me and, ah... Doctor C-callenson."

"Callenson!" Gordon gasped, jerking upright in the seat in his shock.

"He's been told about International Rescue." Tintin said from the doorway. "How are you feeling, Gordon?"

"I'm... I'm okay." Gordon firmed his voice and unbuckled the restraints. "The sleep did me good. What are we doing?"

"Doctor Callenson says we need to get Scott and Alan to a hospital." Tintin reported.

"Virgil should g-go too." Brains nodded.

Rising cautiously, Gordon was relieved to find that his back pain was bearable - the simazopan had been able to work while he had been sleeping.

"And we're out of the storm, right?" he checked as he took a few careful steps.

"Yes." Brains agreed.

"Good." he nodded. "Then I shouldn't have any trouble flying us wherever we've got to go. Gordon to Thunderbird Five. Come in please."

An image flickered up on his watch and he saw John's relieved expression.

"Gordy! You're okay?"

"Yeah, I guess my nap gave the drugs some time to work. What's the plan?"

"Well I'm waiting on a report from Callenson."

"Tintin says he wants Scott and Alan hospitalised asap."

"Alright. Are you fit to fly?"

"Absolutely."

"Right. Get yourself up to the cockpit. Tintin can fly the Excelsior home. I've got a flight plan for you - you're diverting to the nearest hospital where you can drop off Scott, Alan and Virgil, and maybe Doctor Callenson, then you head home. It's going to be hours yet before the weather clears over where One is, so she's as safe as she's going to be for now."

Gordon nodded slowly.

"Alright, but how about a few changes? Brains can fly Excelsior and get home faster to start preparing what he thinks we need to pick up One. We'll dress Callenson up in a uniform and he and Tintin can unload at the hospital. If we put them in the HazMat suits, no-one'll see their faces."

It was a spurious argument - even with the detour, Thunderbird Two would most likely still beat the slower Excelsior jet back to the island. But it would mean Tintin could stay with Alan, and he hoped that John would grasp that as the real logic.

"Yes, you're right." John said slowly. "Alright. Go ahead. Call me when you're taking off and I'll download the flight plan."

"F-A-B, Gordon out."

* * *

Jeremiah looked up to see Tintin supporting Virgil, and moved to help her.

"I'm alright." Virgil protested irritably. "Brains strapped it up - I'll manage until we get to the hospital."

He sank down into a chair and tried fasten the belt. Jeremiah helped him, then took his own seat.

"Gordon says we should be there in about twenty minutes." Tintin announced, moving over to Alan. "You and I will dress in the hazmat suits to unload the stretchers."

"Me?" Jeremiah asked, dumbfounded.

"Story goes that Scott, Al and I were testing out a new Tracy Enterprises prototype and crashed." Virgil supplied. "We had to call for help from International Rescue, who came and got us." He paused, frowned down at his lap, then unhooked his safety belt. "This is no good."

"Virgil, please sit down." Tintin implored. "You might fall over if we hit some turbulence."

"It's a miracle we've got him down here in the first place." Alan muttered.

Virgil shook his head.

"Look at us - we're all still in uniform. We can't go to the hospital like this."

There was a pause as they all looked at each other.

"He's right." Alan said finally. "We'll have to get changed. Tintin, can you go and grab the civvies from my locker? And Virgil's?"

"What about Scott?" she asked. "Do we have anything on board that might fit him? Gordon's won't."

"He can wear my clothes." Virgil decided. "There isn't anything else I can think of."

"And what about you, then?" Alan frowned.

"I've only broken my arm." Virgil reminded him, moving over to one of the cabinets against the wall and unlocking it. "It'll hold til I get home, then someone can fly me to the mainland. You and Scott just can't wait."

"How are we going to get _out_ of uniform anyway, though?" Alan asked peevishly. "I mean, he's strapped to a backboard and I'm... oh no. No. _No_."

Jeremiah turned to see that Virgil was now holding a pair of heavy shears. Tintin blushed and hurried out, mumbling about finding the clothing, and Virgil laughed.

"Oh come on, Al. It's not like she's going to see anything she hasn't seen before."

"I'm going to kill you." Alan grumbled, then looked alarmed as the room jolted causing Virgil to stumble and bang his arm against one of the bunks. "Virge? Are you okay?"

Jeremiah hauled him up and back into the chair.

"I think you should stay there for awhile." he admonished, then realised that Virgil had lost consciousness. "Honestly, from what I've seen today it's a miracle none of you've ever been hurt this badly before!"

"Lots of close shaves over the years, but we've always been lucky." Alan admitted. "Is he okay?"

"He will be. Still, he had the right idea. I don't really want to move either of you about too much, so cutting your clothing off is the only viable option."

Alan sighed.

"Alright then doc. If you insist. Just, ah... could you get it done and me covered up again before Tintin gets back?"

* * *

Gordon bit his lip.

"Virgil's gonna kill me for that."

"What did you just do?"

"Dropped the pod. Don't worry, we're over water."

"You dropped the pod onto water? Gordy - you've never even _tried_ a water pickup. How are you going to get it back?"

"I'll worry about that later. Right now..."

"But Two's harder to fly without the pod." John interrupted him. "You've told me that a dozen times. And in this weather..."

"_I hit the wrong switch, okay!_" Gordon yelled.

There was a short silence, then John cleared his throat.

"Right. You dropped the pod. We'll worry about it later. Can you keep her in the air?"

"Do you have any idea how long it's been since Virge actually let me pilot this thing?" Gordon complained. "I do the sims every month, but it's always the same sim, you know? And Brains keeps upgrading things - how was I supposed to know he'd put the pod release where the forward floodlights used to be?"

"It's okay, Gordy. I won't tell him. Just - can you get them to the hospital?"

"Yes. We're nearly there, that's why I wanted the lights. I'll just stick to the basics."

"Good. That's good. And I'll just see if I can get base to send me the latest schematics..."

* * *

Virgil watched as they took Scott out of the room, taking him first this time. He had not asked for details on what was wrong: at this point he felt he was safer not knowing. He wanted to go with Scott, to stay with him until he woke up, but at the same time he could not bear to sit around waiting. He was vaguely certain that if he stayed away until Scott was treated, his brother would be just fine because Scott would never die without saying goodbye, but if he was nearby then Scott might just give up. That was why he had wanted to stay away from the sick bay in the first place - in case Scott awoke for long enough to speak those words. It was stupid: Scott was not a quitter and there was no reason to think this was anything that serious, but knowing how stupid it was did not lift the superstitious fear from his heart.

Sooner than he would have believed, they were back for Alan and he was sitting in the room alone. Alone with the remains of two torn and bloodied uniforms, two crumpled sashes... He shivered. He could not stay here. Rising a little unsteadily, he was surprised to find how shaky he was. The adrenaline was wearing off, he supposed. Step after faltering step, he headed resolutely towards the cockpit lift. As he reached it, he heard the engines cycling up again and knew that Callenson and Tintin must be back aboard. Typing his passcode into the keypad, he got the doors to open and moved inside. The pseudotropocaine was helping, and he just leaned against the wall for support as the lift rose. Moments later, the doors re-opened, and he shuffled out onto the flight deck in time to hear Gordon signing off with the hospital authorities. There was nothing to lean on between him and the co-pilot's seat, but he made it that far and sat down with a thump.

"Virgil, what are you doing up here?" Gordon demanded. "You're supposed to be resting."

"I'll rest up here." Virgil assured him, his eyes closed.

"You're not going to try to take over or spend the whole trip telling me what I'm doing wrong?" Gordon persisted suspiciously.

Virgil sighed.

"Just get me home, Gordy. That's all I want right now. I want to go home."

* * *

...to be concluded


	10. Chapter 10 Epilogue

Disclaimer: I do not own Thunderbirds, I make no profit from this.

Warning: the punchline is finally given to a very lame joke. Read at your peril.

_Epilogue - three weeks later_

* * *

"_...and finally in today's news, the World President, Madame Sureyev, has confirmed that there has been no further contact from International Rescue since their press statement detailing a temporary shutdown of operations..."_

"_...this organisation has been functioning for just under two years, and yet it is now deemed as vital as the regular emergency services. Even the military have come to depend upon aid from these mysterious men in blue..."_

"_...appeared out of nowhere and have now disappeared back into the ether. The question is, can the world go back to handling tragedy without the presence of our rescue angels?..."_

"_...clearly a direct result of the World Navy's attempts last year to discover the International Rescue base. Since then, a growing number of civilian and military groups have been following up on the information the World Navy collected. Naturally, some of these must be getting close the truth. But the question has to be asked: is knowing their true identities and location worth losing the most effective and apolitical rescue service ever invented? I think not. This is Ned Cooke, signing off."_

John smiled, leaning back in his chair in the quiet of the Round House that had been turned into a make-shift replica of Five's communication hub.

"Thanks Ned." he murmured, muting the speakers.

On the whole, the world was taking the sudden shutdown reasonably well. Moreover, no-one seemed to have connected the loss of service with the final rescue carried out - that of the two Tracy boys testing out a new design for Tracy Enterprises and caught in Cyclone Mathilde.

It had been something they always had ready in reserve - a pre-written transmission, installed in a totally unrelated satellite and routed through a hundred others, ready to be activated with the flip of a switch. Before they had even started up, they had known that something might go wrong - one of them might be killed, or a machine damaged too badly to continue - and they would need an untraceable way of letting the world know that they were off the air. They were not, in fact. John was still monitoring the calls and occasionally anonymously passing them on to the appropriate authorities, but he let the transmissions themselves be answered by the automated system. It was not an easy thing to do, but a necessary one until enough of his brothers recovered so they could go back to work even as a skeleton crew.

Checking his watch, he saw it was nearly time for dinner - time to close up for the day. Things around here were coming right again slowly. Virgil had had his arm set on Moyla by Jeremiah Callenson; Scott and Alan had been stabilised then sent on to San Francisco so they were closer to home. Alan's wound was painful, but there had been no infection and by some miracle he had not actually punctured any internal organs. Scott had turned out to have a mild concussion, a partially collapsed lung and four cracked ribs to go along with the more minor injuries Virgil had identified, and would take longer to fully heal but he too would be fine.

Equipment-wise, they had eventually gotten everything back to base. Gordon had flown Virgil out to the abandoned Pod 4 and Virgil had managed the pickup professionally even with his arm in plaster. The following day they had gone back podless for Thunderbird One, where Tintin and Brains had been camping out to work on the repairs, and they had carried her home too. Now she was back in her hangar and nearly fully repaired.

Gordon was spending hours in Thunderbird Two's cockpit with Virgil, drilling on the controls without leaving the ground. Alan, meanwhile, was playing up his invalid status and had enjoyed a full week of the women fussing over him alone before Scott arrived home yesterday and took some of the attention off him. That, of course, caused arguments, which was the real reason he was spending most of the day shut in over here: the squabbling between the injured brothers was getting more than just tiresome and he found he really missed the peace and quiet of Five.

Stretching, John rose and wandered over to the window to stare out towards the house. This had been a close one. Too close for comfort. And the weird part was that it had not happened on an actual rescue. But they had made it, and the business would go on even more smoothly now that they had Callenson in with them. Funny how things worked out sometimes.

* * *

Jeff smiled to himself, leaning back in his chair and surveying his surroundings. The day was balmy and the sound of the sea soothing, but most importantly he had his family back safe and sound. John would be back from his self-assigned Round House duties very shortly; Scott was dozing on the couch; Virgil had his cast off and was playing softly on the piano, trying to build up strength and dexterity in his hand once again; Alan and Gordon were staring intently at the chess board, Alan having lost five games in a row so far yet unwilling to admit defeat. Which reminded Jeff of an earlier competition.

"Whatever happened to your 'worst joke' competition?" he asked. "Did you ever find a winner?"

Virgil groaned, dropping his forehead onto the keyboard in dismay as Gordon looked up from the game.

"We called it a draw. Although... We did have a late entry from Scott but never heard the punchline."

"Is this another of your bad jokes?" Tintin asked, coming in with Grandma.

"Yeah, but Scott was cheating." Alan frowned at his older brother. "They weren't meant to be dirty jokes."

"Oh now Alan." Grandma scolded him. "I'm sure your brother would not even _know_ any such jokes, let alone pass them around. Would he, Jeff?"

Jeff cleared his throat, by no means as convinced, but Scott sat up a little on the couch.

"It wasn't a dirty joke at all." he pointed out hoarsely. "Just very lame."

"Well then tell us." Tintin said primly.

"Yeah." Gordon grinned. "Tell them."

Scott started to, then began coughing and had to give up. Under other circumstances Jeff might have thought he was trying to get out of answering, but given the surgery he had undergone three weeks earlier it seemed more likely to be genuine.

"I'll do it." Virgil put in as Alan and Gordon began crowing and Grandma went to help Scott sit up. "The joke goes: What's brown and sticky?"

There was a shocked silence from the two women, but Jeff began to laugh.

"Jefferson!" his mother scolded indignantly.

"Oh don't worry, mother." he reassured her. "The boys are right - it's not a dirty joke. It is, however, one of the worst I've ever heard. Go ahead, Virgil, what _is_ brown and sticky?"

Virgil grinned back at him and gave a shrug.

"A stick."

"A stick?" Alan echoed dubiously.

"Yeah. You know - brown. And stick-y. A stick."

"Is that even a joke?" Gordon wondered.

"A stick." Alan repeated numbly. "A stick? You mean we waited nearly a month for _that_?"

"I would say that that's definitely the worst joke I've ever heard." Jeff nodded. "We have a winner. Congratulations, son. So what did you win?"

Gordon and Alan grinned at each other.

"The right to judge the winning entry for the next competition." Gordon smirked. "Bad limericks, didn't we decide, Al?"

"Yup. Bad limericks. Wanna start now, Scott?"

Scott looked up at him in horror, then imploringly over at Virgil who shook his head solemnly.

"Sorry, Scotty, I'm all done rescuing you for this month - for this one you're on your own."

* * *

The end.


End file.
